All's Fair
by Inkling3
Summary: Young Frodo Baggins is in love, but too shy to do anything about it until a friend offers to help. A touching tale of love and betrayal, overwrought poetry, and pipeweed cultivation.
1. The Brandy Hall Boys

Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.

* * *

**All's Fair **

_by Inkling_

expression is the need of my soul  
– archy

**Chapter One: The Brandy Hall Boys**

It was springtime in Buckland, and old Rorimac Brandybuck had that mad gleam in his eye again. The fit took him every year around this time…it once had resulted in his persuading his father, Gorbadoc, to plant a full ten percent of Brandy Hall's acreage in grapevines, against all common wisdom and despite the unfavorable climate. That seemingly doomed enterprise had been a wild success, much to everyone's surprise, and Brandy Hall Vineyards was now one of the most respected names in winemaking from the Shire to Bree.

His schemes usually fared less well, however…especially his long-time obsession with pipeweed cultivation. Three times in the past he had tried—and failed—to establish the temperamental but treasured plant as a viable crop in Buckland.

But this year—the spring of 1389—was different, he assured his skeptical family. This time he would succeed. This time, he was bringing in an expert…

>>>

"Hold up there, you!"

The young hobbit, perhaps eighteen years in age, looked up in surprise, for he had thought himself alone as he ambled slowly along the country lane, lost in idle musings. He now found his way blocked by another lad, a few years older and considerably heavier. His small eyes, pug nose, and receding chin gave him an ill-favored look that wasn't improved by his scowling expression.

"Just who might you be, and where d'you think you're goin'?" he demanded.

The first boy regarded him with cool disdain. "My name and destination are my own business," he replied, "which I'm not inclined to share with the likes of you!"

"Well now, aren't _we_ high and mighty! Your own business, eh? That's as may be, my little lordship, but right now you're blockin' my way, and I don't like that, see?"

The youth glanced left and right at the wide path they stood upon, but he shrugged and stepped aside.

His challenger promptly moved in front of him again with a taunting grin. "Didn't you hear me, lordship, I said you're in my path!"

The boy's eyes narrowed but he sidestepped once more, only to have the other follow him as closely as a nimble dance partner. "Now see here, I've had about enough of this little game…" he began, but his voice trailed off as, from behind the low stone wall flanking the path and from out of the nearby bushes, emerged a motley collection of hobbit youths. Their smiles were not reassuring.

"Ah, but _I_ haven't!" replied the older lad, his own smile broadening. "In fact the game's only just gettin' started, to my way of thinkin'! Now that we've more playmates we oughta have a right good time, eh? So why don't we start by askin' your name again, and this time you'd best answer!"

"Otis, I know who he is!" spoke up one of the other boys suddenly. "I heard my da say the Master sent for some of them Hornblowers to come up from the Southfarthing to larn him how to grow pipeweed…this must be one of 'em."

Otis peered more closely at the stranger lad, noting now his smooth hands and finely tailored clothing. "Pipeweed growers, eh? So it's a little rich boy we've got us here…I _thought_ you looked soft! Aye, we'll have some fun with this one, lads! But I'm forgettin' me manners…" He bowed low, smirking. "Otis Sandheaver at your service, and this lot's me mates! Most folk knows us as the Brandy Hall Boys."

The boy looked over the rag-tag bunch with skepticism. "_You_ live at Brandy Hall?"

"Did I say that?" snapped Otis. "We live all 'round these parts, see, and this here's our territory. You can't pass through wi'out our leave, and you'll not earn that unless you pass the test!"

"And just what might that be?" the youth asked suspiciously.

"Oh, it's naught to speak of," said Otis. "All's you have to do is fight one of us, and if you win, you're free to go where you please!"

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll get a thrashin' from the lot of us…" There was suddenly a much more menacing edge to his voice.

The Hornblower lad—for so he was—stood silent, looking from one to the other. There were eight of them in all, gathered round him in a tightening circle. He was trapped, and saw nothing for it but to go along with their demands. He took a deep breath. "Right, then, let's get on with it…which of you is it to be?" he growled, trying his best to look dangerous.

Otis considered for a moment, then jerked his head toward one of his larger comrades. "Clive, why don't you have a go?"

Clive eyed the boy, who stared back defiantly, his fists clenched. "I dunno, Otis," he muttered, scratching his head.

"Don't tell me you're goin' soft!"

"Nay, never that!" protested Clive. "But…the thing of it is, Otis, t'wouldn't be no proper fight as I'm not angry, like…he'd be gettin' off right easy, he would, and what kind o' test would that be?"

"Hmm, you've got a point there," mused Otis. He stood silent, pondering this dilemma. Then he called to a scrawny, nervous-looking hobbit, "Hoy, Bert! It's your job to keep track of the Baggins…where would he be at this time o'day?"

Bert thought for a moment. "Usually he takes the brat swimming in the afternoon…but they oughta be headin' back from the River by now."

"What're you thinkin', Otis?" said Clive, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

"I'm thinkin' why should we get ourselves dirty when we can set Baggins on him? Now _that_ would be a ruddy good test, eh lads?"

The others murmured and nodded their approval, recalling their own run-ins with the hobbit in question.

"Right then, let's go and meet 'em. Come along, you!"

A few minutes later they were gathered on the path leading down to the River. Otis turned to the Hornblower lad. "So you remember what you're to say?" The youth nodded, tight-lipped. They stood waiting in tense silence, until a high, animated child's voice could be heard in the distance, growing louder by the minute.

Bert, who had gone ahead as a lookout, now came rushing back. "Baggins and his Shadow are heading this way!"

"All right lads, in your places!" barked Otis, and they scrambled over the stone wall beside the path and hunkered down behind it, leaving the Hornblower boy to stand alone.

>>>

Two hobbits were strolling up the path from the River…at least, one strolled while the other alternately lagged behind or darted ahead like a curious puppy. The elder of the pair was a tall, rangy youth just into his tweens. He seemed not entirely at ease with himself, though glimmers of childhood's natural grace still competed with adolescent awkwardness. The intelligence in his eyes and the refinement in his fair-skinned, striking features were almost completely obscured by his self-conscious demeanor and the dark, unruly curls that fell around his face, still damp from his swim. Hands thrust in his pockets and a book tucked under his arm, he was walking slightly hunched over to attend to his small companion's constant stream of chatter, and wore an amused, affectionate smile.

The little one, a lively faunt of six or seven with a tangled thatch of red-gold hair and a smattering of freckles, was wielding a stick with bloodthirsty abandon against invisible but deadly foes. "Sting glows blue!" he shouted "'Ware goblins, Frodo! And look—they've got a dragon with them! Don't worry, I'll protect you!" After dispatching a particularly large, threatening bush, he scurried to catch up with the older lad and asked, panting, "Did Uncle Bilbo really slay a dragon, Frodo?"

"Well…not exactly, no. But he faced one in its den and outwitted it. He stole a piece of treasure from right under its nose and, most important of all, he discovered the secret of how it _could_ be slain."

The youngster looked slightly disappointed, but then brightened as he confidently asserted, "I reckon _I_ could slay a dragon if I met one!"

Frodo seemed to consider this seriously. "If any hobbit could I'm sure it would be you, Meriadoc Brandybuck."

Their conversation was abruptly cut short as they rounded a bend in the path and came face to face with a stranger lad. Frodo stopped but before he could offer any words of greeting, the other said abruptly, "I say, are you Frodo Baggins?"

The open, friendly curiosity in Frodo's face faded at the stranger's odd tone, and the way he refused to meet his eyes after the first quick glance. "Yes…" he replied cautiously.

At first the lad did not answer. Then he suddenly blurted out, "I hear your mother gives swimming lessons—tell her I'd like some!"

Frodo paled slightly, but otherwise showed no reaction. For a moment he stood quite still, his expression now grown curiously calm, almost peaceful. Turning to Merry, who was staring open-mouthed at the stranger from behind the safety of Frodo's legs, he picked him up, carried him over to the wall, and set him carefully down on top of it. "Hold this for me, will you, Merry-lad?" he said, handing him the book. "And promise me you won't stir from this spot, no matter what!"

Merry just nodded, wide-eyed.

Frodo winked at him reassuringly; if he saw the Brandy Hall Boys crouched behind the wall he gave no sign. Then in one fluid motion he spun around and drove his fist into his challenger's jaw with a powerful right hook that sent him sprawling.

The stranger shook his head as if to clear it, and got up slowly, rubbing his jaw. Frodo waited until he was back on his feet, then closed in again. This time the other swung first but Frodo dodged his blow easily—his earlier awkwardness no longer apparent—and punched him in the eye. The lad reeled like a drunkard, but somehow managed to hold his ground.

As soon as the fight began a row of heads had popped up from behind the wall, and a raucous chorus now accompanied the action.

"Come on, Hornblower!"

"Show him you ain't no Southfarthin' sissy!"

Above their shouts rose Merry's shrill, piping voice: "Go on Frodo! Give him what for!"

"Had enough?" asked Frodo, backing off slightly.

"Don't you wish," said the Hornblower lad gamely, and launched himself into the fray once more. Though Frodo was clearly the more skilled fighter, his opponent was a sturdy lad and what he lacked in ability he made up for in dogged determination. Swinging lustily, if not very accurately, he managed to clip Frodo on the side of the head, for which he was repaid with two swift blows to his torso.

Yet now that his first flush of anger had passed Frodo seemed to be holding himself in check, as if reluctant to inflict serious injury on the younger hobbit. Thus while there was no real question as to how it would end, the match seemed likely to go on this way for some time, much to the delight of the Brandy Hall Boys.

Events, however, took an abruptly different turn when a horrified female voice stopped the fighters in mid-swing. "Horatio Hornblower! WHAT in the Four Farthings is going on here?"

Eleven heads swiveled as one. Eleven sets of eyes grew round and large as they gazed on the owner of the voice.

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_**Author's note:**_

Opening quote from _archy and mehitabel_ by Don Marquis.


	2. Like a Vision Fleeting

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality._  
_Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
__Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Two: Like a Vision Fleeting **

A young hobbit-maid stood on the path, glaring at the fighters with a fierce expression that did not in the least detract from her comeliness. From the rich auburn curls tumbling in soft masses about her face to the shapely, silky-furred feet peeping out from beneath her skirt, she was a picture of hobbit perfection.

Slender, elegant hands were firmly planted on gently curved hips; her delicate complexion was charmingly flushed with anger. Limpid brown eyes that seemed made for tender glances and pensive gazes, for reflecting starlight and firelight and a lover's smile, were blazing with a different kind of light just now as she advanced on her victims.

From behind the wall came a low, appreciative whistle. The girl's only acknowledgment was to shoot a scornful glance in its general direction before turning back to the erstwhile combatants, who were now shuffling their feet and staring at them as if wondering who they belonged to. "I do wonder, Horatio, whether you've any more sense than a newt," she growled. "We've not been here two days and I find you in a scrape already! What _will_ Father say?"

At that the boy's head snapped up, a look of alarm on his face. "Don't tell him Hy! Please say you won't!"

"I shan't need to tell him, not with that shiner blooming on your left eye. And YOU!" she added, rounding suddenly on Frodo and dashing his feeble hope that he'd somehow been overlooked. "How dare you thrash my little brother like that?"

"He didn't either!" protested Horatio. "It was me doing the thrashing…I was just about to finish him off when you interrupted us!"

The lass ignored him and continued to fix Frodo with an accusing look. "Well, what have you to say for yourself? Is this any way to treat a stranger and guest in your land? I had expected better manners from Bucklanders, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised!"

Frodo's cheeks were burning scarlet, and he was completely unable to look at her or to make any kind of answer. For one long, painful moment there was complete silence, save for some muffled snickering from behind the wall. Then suddenly a small, high but quite furious voice broke in.

"Don't you talk to my cousin like that!"

Merry, who had remained obediently perched on the wall all this time, could contain himself no longer. Even as Frodo looked up, startled, and managed to choke out, "Merry, no!" he jumped down and charged over to confront his beloved cousin's foes.

The girl looked him up and down and though her eyes were still smoldering, the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. "And who might you be, young master? His squire?"

Merry pulled himself up to his full two-foot height. "I am Meriadoc Brandybuck, and my gaffer's the Master of the Hall and of all Buckland too, and my dad will be too someday, and then I will, I guess, at least my mum says I will if I'm very good and don't sass her back and go to bed as soon as she says to. And when I'm Master I won't let anyone say mean things to Frodo anymore and they'll catch it hot if they do!"

"Merry, it's all right," said Frodo weakly, wishing he could just sink into the ground there and then.

The maid looked at Frodo quizzically, then turned back to Merry. "It's good of you to want to look out for your cousin, Master Meriadoc," she said gravely. "And I'm sorry if you think I'm being hard on him. But you see, that's my brother he was thrash—I mean, fighting, and I look after my own too."

Horatio started to protest, "I don't need looking—"

"Shut up, Horrie!"

Merry frowned, feeling a little muddled. "It wasn't you saying mean things to Frodo," he tried to explain. "Well, maybe you were, but you're not the one I meant was going to catch it. It's your brother, and those boys over there behind the wall, and all the other ones who say things about—about his parents."

The girl's expression, which had begun to soften as she listened to Merry, now grew hard and intent as she shot a look at her brother. "_What do they say about his parents_?"

"Mean things. Things that aren't true. Things about how they…" his voice trailed off as his confidence suddenly abandoned him. He looked timidly at Frodo, whose jaw was clenched tightly.

"How they what?" The maid's voice was gentler as she too looked at Frodo.

Frodo turned away, and seemed to be struggling within himself. "How they died," he finally said in a strangled whisper.

When it became clear that he would not or could not say more, Merry reclaimed his courage as he saw another chance to come to Frodo's aid and set the record straight. "That's why they were fighting, don't you see?" he explained, gazing earnestly up into the girl's face. "Your brother said something about his mum, so then he just _had_ to fight to defend her honor and all."

"_What_?" she gasped. Shocked, she turned slowly toward her brother, just in time to see him trying to sidle off down the road. "Horatio! How could you torment this poor boy in such a horrible way? I never would have thought it of you!"

"I didn't know, I swear!" insisted Horatio. He looked at Frodo for the first time since the fight. "Please, you must believe that I didn't know about your parents…I only said what those louts put me up to, I thought it was some kind of silly Buckland insult, you know, like we say 'Your mum blows smoke rings with Dwarves!' back home."

"What does that mean?" asked Merry with interest.

The lass was only half-listening to her brother, as a new thought had struck her. "His parents dead," she murmured to herself. Aloud she asked Frodo, "What did you say your name was?"

"Frodo…Frodo Baggins." He cautiously met her eyes for the first time.

"Ah! I thought as much…please allow me to offer my greetings, Cousin Frodo!"

Frodo blinked in surprise at this new development.

"_Cousin?"_ echoed Horatio, looking, if possible, even more disconcerted than before.

"Yes, Horrie, if only you'd stop wool-gathering during our family history lessons, you'd know that Great-grandfather Hamilton's sister Tanta married Largo Baggins, making us—"

"Making us third cousins," finished Frodo, for once grateful to his Aunt Dora for relentlessly drilling him on the Baggins family tree during his dreaded visits with her.

"Exactly!" she smiled at him. "I'm Hyacinth Hornblower, of the Longbottom Hornblowers… we've just arrived at Brandy Hall for an extended stay. My brother Horatio here you've already met, it seems!"

"Well, not properly," Frodo said a bit sheepishly. He looked at Horatio and extended a tentative hand. "Hullo, Cousin."

Horatio smiled in relief and pumped his hand vigorously. "Well met, Frodo! That is, er, perhaps not _well_ met, exactly, but…"

"Forget it," said Frodo with a sudden grin that lit up his face.

"Are we cousins too, then?" asked Merry eagerly, feeling a bit left out.

"I'm afraid not, Master Meriadoc, at least only very distantly if at all," Hyacinth replied. "Although, if you go back far enough, it sometimes seems that _everyone_ in the Shire is related in one way or another," she added with a smile.

Behind the wall Otis ground his teeth and cursed silently. This wasn't going at all as planned…

As if she had read his thoughts, Hyacinth abruptly turned toward him, and those few of his companions who had not already slipped away. "As for _you_ rotters," she snapped, "I mean to tell everyone at the Hall about this as soon as I return, so just you wait—"

Before she could finish, the remaining Brandy Hall Boys had scattered like chaff on the wind.

At the same moment, Frodo cried "No!" and, emboldened by desperation, sprang forward and caught her by the arm.

Hyacinth stared at him in surprise.

"Please don't say anything," Frodo begged, his voice cracking with puberty and emotion. "I can bear the taunts, but not the pity!"

They stood thus for a long moment, their eyes locked, until finally Hyacinth broke the silence. "I understand," she said quietly. "As you wish, then…I will say nothing. And neither will you, Horrie, do you hear?" she added, glancing back at her brother.

"Not a word," vowed Horatio. "I'll tell Father I ran into a tree branch or something!"

Frodo realized he was still clutching Hyacinth's arm. "Please excuse me," he stammered, hastily releasing her and retreating to a more proper distance. "I—I hope I didn't hurt you?"

"Not at all Frodo, I'm fine," Hyacinth reassured him, though she couldn't help but rub her arm a little. After smoothing out her skirt and patting some stray wisps of hair back in place, her manner turned brisk and businesslike. "Well! While we didn't get off to a promising start, I am delighted to meet you nonetheless, Cousin. And you, Master Meriadoc. I expect we'll see you at dinner tonight?"

Frodo nodded, feeling suddenly tongue-tied again.

"Oh, are you having dinner with us?" cried Merry excitedly. "That means I'll get to stay up late—I always do when we have new guests!

"Lovely!" said Hyacinth, smiling at him. "Well, until then…" She turned to go. "Come along Horrie, let's get you cleaned up before Father sees you!"

Even after they had disappeared around a curve in the path, Frodo stood looking after them, seemingly lost in thought.

Merry was tugging at his sleeve. "Frodo? Frodo! Can we go home now?"

"What? Oh—sorry, Merry-lad! All right, come on then…" He swung Merry up onto his shoulder, which made the child laugh with pleasure, and started walking briskly back to the Hall.

As they went, Merry prattled nonstop about the fight, the Brandy Hall Boys, and the newcomers.

But Frodo's replies were distracted, and he scarcely saw the way before him. His thoughts were still back on the River-path—reliving the same scene over and over.

At the moment he had stood gazing into Hyacinth's eyes, his heart seemed to stop. And when it started again, he knew that the world had changed forever…

* * *

_Next week  
_Chapter Three: Childish Things 

Endymion! So nice to hear from you…since I don't have an LJ, this is one of the few ways I have to stay in touch with people. Hope all is well with you…and glad you enjoyed chapter one. What am I up to here? Lots, as you'll see! ;)

Permilea – Sorry about HH! unsure whether to hang head in shame or grin wickedly, so does both I couldn't help myself; my warped muse made me do it! Glad you enjoyed anyway, and thanks for letting me know!


	3. Childish Things

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality._  
_Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling _

**Chapter Three: Childish Things  
**

_"Frodo!" _

Frodo looked up with a start. "Yes Aunt Ezzie?"

"Gracious, lad, where's your mind run off to this time? I said, would you like a second helping of mushrooms?"

"Oh…no thank you," murmured Frodo vaguely, as his gaze drifted back down the table.

At that Esmeralda actually got up, went over to Frodo and felt his forehead with a worried frown. "Are you feeling all right, dear?" Since the death of his parents eight years ago Ezzie and her husband Saradoc had acted as Frodo's guardians, and although he was now a tween she still mothered him. She and Sara were Frodo's cousins, but due to the age difference he had always called them aunt and uncle.

Embarrassed by her fussing, Frodo ducked his head and blushed. "I'm fine, Aunt, really! I'm just not hungry, that's all."

"That's precisely what I mean, Frodo, I…" As she talked her eyes had followed Frodo's, and came to rest on Hyacinth Hornblower chatting gaily with an attentive group of young male admirers. "Oh," said Esmeralda. "Dear!" she added. Frodo, sweet on a lass? It couldn't be! He was too young for that sort of thing…wasn't he? She stole a glance at him, but needn't have worried about being discreet. Frodo was oblivious to everything around him—everything except the one on whom he gazed with such starry-eyed devotion.

_And so it starts_, she thought grimly. Just when things had finally settled down these past few years, too! Frodo the troubled, rebellious teen had been challenging enough. But Frodo the love-struck tween…it didn't bear thinking about. She seized her wineglass and drained it in one gulp.

Up at the head of the table, Rory was having problems of his own. He wanted nothing more than to remain pleasantly engrossed in conversation with Hamilcar Hornblower about the ten wagonloads of hothouse-grown pipeweed seedlings currently on their way up from the Southfarthing, nestled snugly under burlap covers against the cool spring air. However, he found himself distracted by the hostilities flaring between his wife, Menegilda, and Mrs. Hortensia Hornblower, a well-dressed, well-fed matron wearing too much jewelry and feeding tidbits to a high-strung little dog ensconced in her lap.

It was Hortensia who had started it, gazing about her disdainfully when they came in to dinner and saying in a patronizing tone, "Dining in the kitchen—how quaint and rustic!"

Elsa Brockhouse, Brandy Hall's head cook, had just come over with the soup tureen. She looked daggers at Hortensia and set the heavy vessel down with a thud that shook the table, then stomped back to her fires. Everyone else held their breath and stole uneasy glances at Gilda.

Never before had anyone maligned Brandy Hall's kitchen—by far the oldest, largest, and most imposing chamber in the smial, with its enormous fireplace and vaulted brick ceiling. True, there were some smaller, more formal dining chambers off the main passage, but they were seldom used. The fact of the matter was that no other room in the Hall could accommodate the large numbers that Rory so often hosted for meals.

The Mistress of the Hall looked outwardly unperturbed, but Rory could hear the edge in her voice as she eyed the lapdog and calmly replied, "At least we rustic folk don't let our critters eat at table with us!"

Now it was Hortensia's turn to bristle. "My dear Mrs. Brandybuck, I hardly consider Fluffy a _critter_," she retorted. "She's a purebred Miniature Shire Terrier, and just like one of the family! Isn't 'oo, snookums?" she cooed, kissing her dog on the nose. Fluffy began yapping excitedly and tried to climb up on the table.

"Looks more like a long-haired rat to me," Gilda muttered under her breath.

Ever quick to mirror the moods of their elders, Merry and his cousin Berilac began poking each other.

"Sara, tell your son to behave!" said Esmeralda sharply.

"Oh, now he's my son is he?" retorted Saradoc.

"Ow! Berry pinched me!" yelped Merry, spilling his milk in the ensuing tussle. Sara and his brother Merimac each grabbed a son and forcibly separated them.

With a deep sigh Ezzie poured herself another glass of wine.

Even Hortensia finally seemed to weary of Fluffy's squirming and panting, and set her down on the floor. She immediately dashed over to the hearth, where Rory's deerhound Garm was industriously gnawing on a sheep bone, trying to crack it open to suck out the marrow. Fluffy skidded to a halt in front of him and commenced yipping ferociously.

Garm stared down at the tiny, menacing creature. He had a very expressive face, for a dog, and now managed to look both astonished and embarrassed as he stalked off, stiff-legged, to take refuge beneath Rory's chair. Being quite a large hound, only his front end fit.

"A poor excuse for a dog _you_ are," Rory growled at him.

Garm just whimpered.

With a final triumphant _yip_, Fluffy settled down with the abandoned bone, which was larger than she was, and tried to devour it whole.

The tension in the room was growing so thick that when a cheery voice sang out, "Hallo everyone! Is there any food left?" a sigh of relief went up from more than one member of the company.

"Ah! There you are, Coronel! Late again, you old scoundrel," said Rory indulgently. "Hamilcar, may I present Coronel Took of the Great Smials…Coronel, this is Mr. Hamilcar Hornblower from Longbottom, the noted pipeweed grower of whom you've no doubt heard."

Scion of the Isembold branch of the enormous Took clan, Coronel was a tall, good-looking hobbit in his late tweens with an easy smile and the careless confidence of someone used to being master of any given situation. "No doubt indeed!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Hornblower, it is a great honor to meet the gentlehobbit responsible for the many hours of exquisite pleasure I have enjoyed courtesy of your incomparable leaf! At your service, sir!" He bowed deeply.

Hamilcar puffed with pride, his already expansive waistcoat swelling even further. "Delighted, I'm sure," he replied. "This is my wife, Hortensia, and my two children, Hyacinth and Horatio."

"Charmed, my dear lady," said Coronel, taking Hortensia's hand with an even lower bow. She gave a high-pitched giggle and blushed like a lass. On the younger Hornblowers he bestowed a smile and polite nod. Horatio waved eagerly in response, but Hyacinth shot him a cool, suspicious look before turning back to her little coterie.

Coronel had recently arrived for an extended visit with his Brandybuck relations due to certain circumstances only whispered about in polite company, but apparently involving the pretty young wife of a distant cousin back in the Tooklands. It had been thought best to spirit Coronel away for a time, until the husband's wrath cooled. This incident in particular, along with Coronel's general reputation as a ladies' hobbit and the best brawler at the Great Smials, had earned him the adulation of every hobbit lad in the vicinity of the Hall, and the whispers and giggles of every lass.

He now found a place at the head table, and the general mood relaxed markedly as he entertained the company with amusing stories about the more eccentric members of the Took family. The rest of the dinner passed without incident.

Frodo had spoken little all evening, ever since his introduction to the Hornblowers at the beginning of the meal. "We've met," Hyacinth had said, her demure expression betrayed by the twinkle in her eye as Frodo and Horatio both turned bright red. Much as he enjoyed watching her, Frodo was relieved when dinner finally ended and he could retreat to the quiet of his room to try to sort out the day's confusing events.

>>>

Shutting the door behind him, Frodo quickly knelt beside his bed to drag out a small wooden chest. He lifted the lid and removed some pen nibs and holders, a bottle of ink, and a large, richly bound book—a gift from his cousin Bilbo on his 15th birthday. It was a journal, his greatest source of comfort and aid at times such as this. He rifled through the gilt-edged pages, by now mostly filled with his flowing, graceful script, then turned back to the first entry and began to read:

_22 Halimath, 1383_

_I write this sitting in my room in disgrace.  
__Went mushroom hunting again today. The hunt was a success but alas, so was the pursuit and we had to give them back.  
__Also rode a bull..._

Frodo smiled slightly, then turned a few pages.

_The first of Blotmath, 1383_

_I have discovered an important rule to live by: never, ever eat late harvest grapes if the skins are split!_ _My head still feels like dwarves have been using it as an anvil...  
__Aunt Ezzie came by this morning with tea and toast but just the sight of it made me get sick all over again. Yet now I'm starting to feel hungry, so I must be on the mend…_

_It's a pity that I can remember so little of what happened last night…Rory's stand against the Bunce brothers is sure to become Buckland legend, from what Feralia told me when she brought the herbal tonic about an hour ago. I wonder how poor Curley is feeling?_

Skipping ahead a year, Frodo's eyes next came to rest on the following passage:

_4 Blotmath, 1384_

_With harvest over, the Brandy Hall school is back in session for the winter. Uncle Sara was as good as his word…now that I am sixteen he's made me assistant schoolmaster! At last I don't have to sit in the back feeling bored. Good old Falstaff seems quite pleased about it too…he says I can help the students who are having trouble with their reading so he can move ahead with the others._

_When I arrived this morning to relieve him of his duties, Alfred Tunnelly actually shook my hand and wished me well! Ever since I tried to swim the River last year, he's been much nicer to me. He even took me aside to give me some advice, saying, "Don't ever let them know you're afraid of them, they prey on weakness." Poor Alfred! I don't think he much liked teaching. The class doesn't frighten me in the least, we all got on famously today. Now if I just can persuade Falstaff to let me slip in some history of the Elves in Eriador…_

Frodo flipped through the pages more quickly now, searching for a recent entry that had been much on his mind these past few weeks. Ah—there it was:

_25 Rethe, 1389 _

_I've just returned from a fortnight's stay with Uncle Bilbo. It was splendid, as always, but for two rather strange occurrences. The first took place late one evening, when Bilbo had just finished telling the tale of his battle with the spiders of Mirkwood. I got to thinking about the magic ring that had made possible his heroic rescue of the dwarves, and asked him if he still had it._

_He gave me a queer look and said, sounding a bit testy, "Of course I still have it! Did you suppose I would just toss it away at the end of my adventure?"_

"_May I see it, then?" I asked, feeling suddenly curious._

_For a long moment Bilbo sat quite still, then he slowly reached into his pocket and drew out something on a chain. He uncurled his fingers, and there in his palm lay the ring!_

_It wasn't much to look at: just a plain gold band. I had imagined something far more lavish, set with precious stones. And yet…as I gazed on it, I began to think that its rich, gleaming luster, indeed its very simplicity, was more pleasing than any jewels._

_I found my hand reaching for it, as of its own will, whereupon Bilbo immediately snatched it away with a scowl that was most unlike him. "Don't touch it!" he snapped, thrusting it back into his pocket. I must have looked as startled at I felt, because just as quickly he seemed to collect himself, passing his hand over his eyes and murmuring "I'm sorry lad, I didn't mean to carry on so. But there you are; magic rings are best kept out of sight and mind! Don't want to wear out the magic, you know!" he added, with a laugh that sounded rather forced. I couldn't help but think of Gilly Banks saying the same thing about his "magic stone" so many years before. Whatever became of it, I wonder?_

_The other odd thing happened over second breakfast on my last morning at Bag End. We had been discussing plans for our next birthday—whether I would visit him again, or whether he would make the trip to Buckland. Suddenly he looked up from stirring his tea and said, "You had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together!"_

_It was such a strange thing to say, even for Bilbo, that it caught me completely by surprise and I just sat there for a moment, staring at him. Then I laughed, which must have been a mistake, because he looked rather hurt and quickly changed the subject. We didn't speak of it again, and passed the time pleasantly enough until my departure._

_Yet now I find that I can't forget the look on Bilbo's face when I tried to touch the ring, nor his words on that last morning. At the time I felt certain he must be joking, but now I'm not so sure. Is it possible that he meant it when he asked me to live with him? Though I can't imagine why…I thought he liked living alone. I've always felt so close to him, but am starting to wonder if I really know him at all. Perhaps everyone is right when they say he's gone a bit queer. Or perhaps he's just lonely. I'm rather worried about him, truth be told…_

Frodo stared down at the page for some minutes, brow furrowed, before turning to the journal's last notation:

_12 Astron, 1389_

_Uncle Rory's great pipeweed adventure (Auntie Gilda calls it his "pipe dream") has begun in earnest. I_ _just hope I'm not asked to help, or if anything goes wrong he'll blame it on me. _

_The Hornblower family arrived late last night from Longbottom to advise him but I haven't seen them yet. The talk at dinner has been nothing but pipeweed for days; I suppose that will only get worse now. I've heard there are some faunts, though, perhaps they'll prove amusing…_

Amusing indeed! Frodo sighed and lowered the book. All his old escapades and concerns—mushroom raids and magic rings—now seemed very childish. He dipped his pen and began a new entry:

_Later_

_So much has happened since last I wrote in these pages—was it only this morning?—that I scarcely know where to begin…  
Today I met_

There he stopped, unsure of how to put his strange new feelings into words. Moreover, it seemed all wrong to be writing about Hyacinth like this, as if she were just another item of interest to be duly noted and analyzed in a journal that suddenly seemed completely inadequate and unworthy of her.

Frodo searched his memory for some more fitting means of expression and suddenly he was back at Bag End, curled up by the fire listening, entranced, as Bilbo recited Elvish poems and lays—sometimes translating, sometimes in the High-Elven speech. In either language, the words held a beauty and mystery that moved Frodo deeply, even when he did not fully understand them. Could he write something like that about Hyacinth? Perhaps, just perhaps…

Turning back to the wooden box, he removed a sheet of parchment, stared at it for some minutes, and then carefully wrote in his best hand:

_I love thee_

As he paused to contemplate these words, a wondering smile crept over his face. Then he resumed writing—tentatively at first, but soon his pen was scratching furiously across the page.

* * *

_Next week_  
Chapter Four: A Friend in Need

**_Author's notes:_ **

I apologize if some of Frodo's early journal entries seem cryptic; they refer to events in my first story, "The Terror of Buckland." However, none of these incidents are essential to understanding the current story, although there are some connections.

Bilbo's words,"You had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together!"are, of course, from _The Fellowship of the Ring_.


	4. A Friend in Need

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality._  
_Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
__Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Four: A Friend in Need **

Early the next morning Frodo bolted his breakfast and ducked out of the Hall before anyone could decide that he was needed for something. Tucked under his arm was the wooden box; he had decided to seek out a more inspirational setting in which to finish his poem.

He wandered now along the footpath leading to the apple orchard, all around him the joyous bloom of the season. Hawthorn trees overhung the path like the arches of a great hall, a thousand buds swelling and opening, and the air throbbed with the fragrance of their blossoms. Beneath them plumes of lilac nodded above their fresh green foliage, glowing purple in the shade. The exquisite beauty of it all pierced Frodo's heart like a sword, and he wondered that it had never moved him so before.

Even the sight of Otis Sandheaver coming up the path did nothing to spoil his mood. In fact, Frodo was filled with affection at the sight of him. If it hadn't been for Otis, he would not have had occasion to meet Hyacinth yesterday, to take her arm, to gaze into her eyes…"Hullo Otis!" he exclaimed cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. "Wonderful morning, isn't it?"

He walked on and Otis stared after him, bewildered and somewhat crestfallen. Frodo Baggins glad to see him! Suddenly all felt very wrong with his world…

The orchard was dressed up in white lace like a country bride. Frodo threw himself down in the shade of a large, spreading tree, arms behind his head, and stared dreamily up at the sky through snowy drifts of apple blossoms. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. Closing his eyes, he let Hyacinth's lovely face and melodious voice fill his mind until he suddenly sat up and began writing as if possessed. When at last he set down his pen, Frodo lay back again with a satisfied sigh and held the parchment up to read over his work.

Without warning, it was torn from his hands as a familiar, spiteful voice said, "And what have we here, eh?" It was Otis! He had stealthily entered the orchard, convinced he would have no rest until he had restored normal relations with the Baggins. Standing just out of Frodo's reach, he made a great show of examining the sheet. "Very interestin'…very interestin' indeed!" he said in a mock-serious tone.

Now Otis was no hobbit of letters, and could make neither heads nor tails of the document. In fact, he was holding it upside down. But he had wits enough to see that it was very important to Frodo.

"Give it back, you lout!" cried Frodo, leaping up and advancing on him threateningly.

Otis didn't blink. "Take more one step, Baggins," he sneered, "and I tears this into scraps!"

Frodo stopped abruptly, and glared at his tormentor in helpless frustration. "Give it back!" he repeated, but now there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Well now," Otis drawled, savoring the moment, "I don't know as I'm in any hurry to do that…what's it worth to you?"

"I don't know what it's worth to him, but I'll tell you what it's worth to _me_," said a new voice, as a hand reached over Otis' shoulder and snatched the parchment from his grasp. He jumped in surprise, then whirled around with an oath…but the angry words died on his lips.

For Coronel Took had stepped out from behind the tree and now stood leaning against it, an amused smile on his face. "It's worth my not giving your ears a boxing and your arse a good kick for disturbing my morning constitutional," he continued amiably, but his light, bantering tone was at odds with the menacing gleam in his eye. Otis needed no stronger hint to take to his heels, without so much as a backward glance.

Still recovering from his own surprise at this sudden reversal of fortune, Frodo gazed at his unexpected savior with mingled relief and gratitude. "Coronel, I…I'm much obliged to you!" he stammered.

Coronel waved off his thanks. "Think nothing of it, lad—Frodo, isn't it?—after all, we Tooks and Brandybucks have to stick together, eh?"

Though Frodo had spoken little with Coronel since his arrival at the Hall, he knew that they were second cousins once removed and it appeared that Coronel knew it too. He tousled Frodo's hair in a paternal gesture that Frodo normally would have loathed, but somehow didn't mind coming from Coronel. In fact he felt honored by the attention; up until now the older tween had seemed scarcely to notice his existence.

Coronel now flopped down on the grass and turned his attention to the rescued parchment. "So what have we here?" he said, unknowingly echoing Otis' words. He looked at it with idle curiosity.

Frodo began to squirm in growing chagrin. "Er, Coronel, might I have that back now?" he ventured uneasily, sitting down beside his cousin.

"Certainly lad, certainly…all in good time. But first, surely I'm entitled to a peek at this treasure after saving it from the clutches of your foe!" His casual perusal grew more intent, and he began to read aloud:

_I love thee as I love the first  
Young violet of the spring;  
Or the pale lily, April-nurs'd,  
To scented blossoming._

If Frodo was embarrassed before, he was now mortified. He began twisting the corner of his weskit into a bunch. "Coronel, _please_…"

"Half a minute, Frodo, I can't stop now!" He continued reading:

_I love thee as I love the tone  
Of some soft-breathing flute  
Whose soul is wak'd for me alone,  
When all beside is mute._

Frodo wished fervently that the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

Finally Coronel paused and glanced up at Frodo with new interest. "So you've got it pretty bad, eh? Who's the lucky lass?"

His cheeks flaming, Frodo mumbled something unintelligible.

"Oh come now, you can tell Cousin Cory!"

"Hyacinth Hornblower," said Frodo, a little louder this time.

"Of course, the Hornblower lass!" Coronel gave Frodo a long, appraising look. "I commend you on your good taste, Cousin…she's quite the looker, is Hyacinth. A bit old for you though, isn't she? I believe she's nigh on twenty-nine."

"Why should that matter!" said Frodo hotly, then stopped, shocked at his flash of temper toward his renowned cousin and benefactor.

But Coronel seemed unoffended. "No reason at all," he soothed. "Come to think of it, when did I ever let a little difference in age stop _me_? Well, happy hunting lad! When do you plan to present her with this testament to your devotion?"

"Oh! I could never give it to her!" exclaimed Frodo, horrified at the mere thought.

Coronel looked mystified. "Not give it to her…? Isn't that the, ah, whole point of writing it? Why else if not to win her heart?"

"I…I just had to write what I felt," said Frodo, struggling to explain. "It seemed that if I kept it bottled up inside any longer I'd burst!"

"I see," said Coronel, though he clearly didn't. "So…what _are_ you going to do with it then?"

Frodo hadn't really thought that far ahead. "I don't know," he faltered. "Just…keep it, I suppose, and read it every now and then. And…write more like it!"

Coronel looked at him incredulously, then shrugged and smiled. "As you please…" He looked down at the parchment once more and read softly, as if to himself:

_I love thee as the glad bird loves  
The freedom of its wing  
On which delightedly it moves  
In wildest wandering._

"Seems a shame to waste it though…this isn't half bad and the lasses really seem to go for this sort of thing." He stopped suddenly and a thoughtful expression came over his face. "You know, Frodo, even if you're not keen to give this to her yourself, you could get someone to deliver it for you."

The idea both frightened and attracted Frodo. "Do you really think I ought?"

"Absolutely! Don't you realize how thrilled she would be to know she'd inspired such deliciously romantic sentiments?"

"Would she?" Frodo was blushing again.

"Of course she would—who wouldn't! Wisht, lad, _I'd_ be thrilled to get such a poem!" said Coronel with a wink, and a sly glance to gauge Frodo's reaction to his last remark. None was forthcoming but then he hadn't really expected it, and continued on without missing a beat. "Such eloquence deserves to be heard—you must find a messenger!"

_But whom could I trust on such an errand? _thought Frodo, and he inwardly cringed at the prospect of taking anyone into his confidence regarding such a delicate matter. He would not have confided even in Coronel if he hadn't coaxed it out of him. He looked hesitantly at his cousin, who at that moment was studying the ground in a modest, unassuming manner.

"Coronel, I—I don't suppose you'd…?"

"Why Frodo!" He looked up, appearing surprised and deeply moved. "I would consider it an honor to be entrusted with the tender task of delivering this precious missive into the lovely hands of Hyacinth Hornblower, and no other! At your service, sir!" he said with a little salute and a disarming smile.

"Would you? O Coronel, that would be splendid!" exclaimed Frodo gratefully.

"Right, that's settled then," said Coronel briskly. He finally returned the poem to Frodo. It remains only for you to sign this and say the word, and I'll be on my way!

Frodo froze in the act of reaching for the sheet. "Sign it? No, Coronel, you still don't understand…if she knew I had written it I think I should die!"

Coronel looked at him quizzically, at a momentary loss for words. "You _are_ a shy one, aren't you?" he remarked at last. "Very well then, an ardent, but secret, admirer you shall be! But you must at least sign it with an assumed name." He offered the parchment to Frodo once more, and this time he took it, only to sit staring at it blankly as he pondered these instructions.

A pen name—but what! Something like his own, but not too like…Odo? Dudo? Suddenly, it came to him. "Udo," he whispered. He seized and dipped his pen, then wrote hurriedly across the top of the page. After waving it back and forth a few times to dry the ink, he returned the document to Coronel.

His cousin looked at it and smiled._ "To Princess Hyacinth from your devoted servant, Prince Udo,"_ he read aloud. "I like it! Very fitting…you do look rather princely, you know."

"It's not too like my own name, is it? She mustn't suspect!" said Frodo anxiously.

Coronel smiled at him reassuringly. "You have my word, Frodo, that I will do everything in my power to make certain she does not! In affairs of the heart I am the very soul of discretion!"

"I don't know how to thank you, Coronel…you're a true friend."

A shadow passed over the older tween's face for a moment, but then he was smiling again. "Not at all, my dear Frodo…anything to help a cousin, as I said. And please—call me Cory!" He sprang to his feet, then carefully folded the missive and tucked it into his breast pocket. And with a sweeping bow and a flourish, he was off down the path, whistling a merry tune.

* * *

_Next week  
_Chapter Five: Spring Fever

_**Author's notes:**_

Frodo's poem is an excerpt from "I Love Thee" by Eliza Acton.

In defense of Frodo's gullibility: At this point, dear reader, you probably have a better idea of where this is going than Frodo does. In fact, you're undoubtedly wondering how he, or anyone, could be so incredibly naïve as to trust a charlatan like Coronel.

But I put it to you: is he any more gullible than Lord Manwë himself, for believing Melkor when he said he was very very sorry for trashing Arda and would never do it again? Even Tulkas saw through _that_, and he doesn't strike me as the brightest star in the firmament. _The_ _Silmarillion_ explains that Manwë is so good he simply has a hard time seeing evil in others. And just so with Frodo…he assumes Coronel is as honorable as himself, and he is still young enough, and inexperienced enough, not to realize what a very risky assumption this is.

**Endymion** – The funniest thing about the little monsters is that they really think they are still big, fierce wolves! I have known dogs just like both Fluffy and Garm…watching a big dog trying to hide under a chair is truly hilarious!  
Sorry, but I just couldn't figure out a way to get Gilly into this story, though I did think about it. Briefly considered a journal entry about Gilly taking a trip to Bree with his family. There he sees Fenton, who is now apprenticed to a blacksmith and who sends a gift back for Frodo: a bull's nose ring! But it was just too far off topic…  
As for the magic stone, it's somewhere in the River, where Gilly threw it the night of the storm as an offering to save Frodo's life. He never told Frodo this…  
Curley Brownlock makes a brief appearance, however.


	5. Spring Fever

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality._  
_Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
__Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Five: Spring Fever**

That evening Frodo was on tenterhooks all through dinner, scarcely able to eat for excitement. He tried to catch Coronel's eye but Mrs. Hornblower was monopolizing him with endless questions on the latest fashions being worn by the ladies of the Great Smials.

Otherwise, the conversation was dominated by pipeweed. The seedlings had arrived and were to be planted on the morrow, and Rory was in great good spirits. He and Hamilcar toasted each other repeatedly with Brandy Hall Vineyards' finest, pledging close and lasting ties between Buckland and the Southfarthing, their own undying friendship, mutual esteem, and so forth.

Hamilcar was full of instructions and advice regarding the young plants. "You'll have naught to worry about once they're safely in the ground," he said. "Of course, there's always a slight risk of transplant root rot setting in, but I don't see that happening here."

While Hyacinth was surrounded by her usual retinue, her brother had made a point of sitting next to Frodo. Ever since the fight he had taken great pains to make amends; indeed he seemed to have adopted 'Being Nice to Cousin Frodo' as his personal mission. Frodo didn't mind this so much, except that Horatio's solicitous attentions were a bit distracting when all he really wanted was to be left alone to wonder whether Hyacinth had liked the poem, and to admire her every elegant move.

Just now she was buttering a slice of bread. Frodo watched, entranced, as she broke off a bite-sized piece, then with a graceful flick of her wrist captured a dab of butter with the tip of her knife. So lightly that it seemed almost a caress, she smoothed the butter over the bit of bread and carefully set the knife back down on her plate before daintily nibbling on the tiny morsel.

A sudden shout of laughter drew Frodo's startled attention to the head of the table, where Rory was eating, talking, and gesturing all at the same time. As Frodo stared in horror, he tore off a great chunk of bread from the loaf by his plate, slathered it with butter and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. Frodo wanted to sink under the table in mortification. What kind of coarse, unmannered folk must the Hornblowers think his family? Not daring to take another bite himself, he spent the remainder of the meal pushing food around on his plate, half-listening to Horatio's personal theories on the pipeweed's prospects, and stealing glances at Hyacinth. Once she looked up and met his eyes with an inscrutable expression. _Did she know?_

Fluffy yapped impatiently until her mistress set her on the floor, then pranced over to the hearth where Garm was chewing on a cheese rind. This time it took only one authoritative _yip_ to send the hound slinking off to Rory's chair. Fluffy contentedly curled up inside the rind and fell asleep.

As dinner finally drew to a close and the hobbits rose from the table, Coronel looked Frodo's way and inclined his head slightly toward the Hall's main entrance. Taking the hint, Frodo slipped away unnoticed and hurried down the passageway to the front doors. Bursting outside he nearly collided with his cousin, who was there ahead of him, and seized his arm in a death grip. "_Well?_"

"Well…" Coronel echoed, pausing for dramatic effect and grinning at Frodo's anxious face. He cuffed him playfully. What do you _think_, lad? She loved it, of course!

Frodo gave a short, happy laugh. "She did?"

"She read it over three times…and blushed more on every reading!"

Frodo's delight faded as a sudden, worrisome thought struck him. "Did she ask you who sent it?" he faltered.

"Aye, but I told her that the secret would die with me," replied Coronel with a wink.

"And…she wasn't cross?"

"Oh, she was vexed all right! But no amount of coaxing on her part served to drag it out of me…" Coronel suddenly changed the subject. "But I've saved the best news for last, Cousin!"

"Yes?" breathed Frodo eagerly.

"She said that if Prince Udo should feel inclined to write another poem for her, she would be delighted to receive it."

"Oh!" Frodo suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed. "She—she wants another poem?"

"Indeed she does, lad! D'you think you can manage it?"

Frodo drew himself up proudly and looked at Coronel with a determined glint in his eye. "The princess can depend on it!"

>>>

Morning found Frodo bouncing along the passage toward the kitchen, singing loudly:

_Is't not fine to dance and sing  
With a hey nonny nonny_

He paused only long enough to chirp cheerily, "Morning, Aunt Ezzie! Morning, Uncle Sara!" as he passed them.

_A little madness in the spring  
Is wholesome even for the King  
Hey nonny nonny no!_

Esmeralda and Saradoc glanced at each other, eyebrows aloft. It wasn't like Frodo to go breezing through Brandy Hall singing silly little ditties…

But they were in for an even bigger surprise, as a rumbling baritone took up the song:

_Is't not fine to swim in wine  
And turn upon the toe_

It was Rory, and as he approached he and Frodo finished together:

_And sing hey nonny no!_

"Good morning, Frodo! How's my favorite nephew?" Rory boomed jovially.

"Never better, Uncle!" said Frodo, beaming at him.

Rory laughed and tousled his hair before continuing on down the passage, whistling merrily, as Frodo disappeared in the other direction.

Sara now stared at Ezzie open-mouthed. While relations between Rory and Frodo had improved in recent years, it still could not be said that they got on well together.

But Esmeralda shrugged and said simply, "It's spring!" Then, giggling like a flighty lass of twenty, she reached up on tiptoe to give Sara a quick kiss before running off herself.

Sara just shook his head, bemused. Suddenly he smiled, glanced around self-consciously and, seeing no one, hastened after his wife, humming happily and slightly off-key.

Hey nonny nonny no.

>>>

After breakfast Frodo hurried toward the wing of Brandy Hall that housed the school. Rory had commandeered Falstaff Goodbody, the schoolmaster, to assist him in devising and recording possible names for the new Buckland pipeweed that, he was confident, would soon be renowned throughout the Shire. Frodo was to teach today in his stead.

He entered the small schoolroom to find a dozen young hobbit-lads already seated, books and slates neatly arranged on their desks. "Good morning, Mr. Baggins!" they chorused.

"Good morning class," replied Frodo, as always barely able to suppress a grin at this greeting. It was near 13 years yet before he could by rights be called "Mister," yet custom required that this title of respect be given to anyone teaching school, be it only for the day.

Frodo sat down at the schoolmaster's desk and read over the lesson plan Falstaff had prepared:

_Reading ("Edifying Tales from the Life of Gorhendad Oldbuck"), one hour_

_Sums, one half-hour_

_History of Buckland (Part Twelve: The Planting of the High Hay), one hour_

_Writing (topic: "Why the Shire Is Not Superior to Buckland"), one half-hour _

_Local family trees (Maggot of Bamfurlong, Puddifoot of the Marish, Banks of Standelf), two hours_

He sighed and his glance strayed to the window, where another glorious spring morning beckoned seductively. The view was dominated by an enormous chestnut tree—not yet in bloom but with tender new leaves unfurling against an impossibly blue sky and kindled to green-gold fire by the sun.

The words started forming, unbidden, in his mind. He surveyed the expectant, upturned faces of his young charges, waiting patiently for his instructions, and made his decision. "Class, put away your books and come along outside. All you need to bring are pen, ink, and parchment."

The students stared at each other in surprise and confusion. Finally one ventured cautiously, "What are we goin' to do, Mr. Baggins?"

Frodo looked at him and smiled. "Today we are going to write poetry!"

>>>

Late that afternoon Frodo was draped across his bed, looking over his newest effort:

_Where-e'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,  
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade,  
Where-e'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,  
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes._

He frowned, hoping Hyacinth would not think it overly formal. But while writing in the garden surrounded by his eager, curious pupils, he had felt too constrained to use the more intimate _thou_ and _thine_.

Gradually intruding on these thoughts came the sounds of a distant commotion, and Frodo looked out the window to see Farmer Puddifoot storming up the path toward Brandy Hall, complaining loudly as he came. Trailing behind him was his son Wat, a student at the school and an eager participant in the morning's poetry session. Long experience had taught Frodo to make himself scarce during such visits, and by the time farmer and son were coming in at the front of the Hall, he was slipping out the back.

>>>

Rory's family was gathered around him in the kitchen, where they had been summoned to offer their opinions on the prospective pipeweed names. The day's planting had gone well and Rory was already making elaborate plans for Buckland's newest export crop.

"All right Falstaff, let's hear 'em all, then we can take a vote."

With a long-suffering sigh, Falstaff began reading from a list: "Buckland BroadLeaf…Eastern Gold…Old Rory—"

"That one's my favorite," put in Rory eagerly.

Sara and Mac looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"_Old Looney_ would be more fitting," sniffed Gilda.

"Eh? What's that, wife?"

"I said—"

But before Gilda could repeat herself she was interrupted by a loud and highly irate voice heralding someone's rapid approach down the main passage: "…such nonsense as I've never heard in all my days! We'll just see what the Master has to say about _this_!" A moment later Farmer Puddifoot burst into the kitchen, followed more slowly by his eldest son Wat.

"G'day to you, Silas!" cried Rory. "You're just in time to hear the names I'm considering for my pipeweed!"

But the farmer was not to be deterred. "Don't you 'g'day' _me_, Rory! There's naught good about it, to my thinkin'!"

Rory frowned. "What's curdled your milk, old boy?"

"I'll tell you what—it's that school as my Wat here's been attendin'—it's gone and filled his head with queer notions!"

Saradoc and Falstaff both started, and stared at him in surprise and alarm. "What do you mean, sir?" sputtered the schoolmaster defensively.

"Well, it's like this: I don't mind sayin' as I've had my doubts about this school right from the get-go, but the missus was keen on it and I had to allow that some book larnin' might come in handy at that, for keeping the accounts and writin' up the grain contracts and the like.

"Anyhow, when Wat got home this afternoon I thought he was actin' a mite peculiar, but said naught about it and set him to tallyin' up our seed grain inventory, so's I could reckon how much more to buy at the fair next week.

"When I came back after a spell to see how he was gettin' on, I found he'd tallied naught at all! He was just sittin' on a sack of barley, a-writin' THIS!" He dramatically whipped out a sheet of parchment for their inspection.

"What do you have there, Silas?" asked Rory.

"_He_ says it's a _po'm_," said the farmer scornfully, jerking his head toward the shame-faced Wat, who was awkwardly shifting from one foot to another, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"A poem, eh? Well, let's hear it, then!"

"Confound it Rory, _I_ can't read it!" He thrust the offending document toward Rory, who glanced at it briefly before passing it to Saradoc.

After scanning the sheet with a somewhat baffled expression, Sara stood up and recited solemnly:

_The Little Barley Grain  
By Watney Puddifoot_

_Behold the little barley grain  
So plump, so firm, so round  
How nobly it endureth  
When plowed into the ground._

_How proud it springeth up again  
When showers of rain doth fall_  
_And by midsummer it hath grown  
So thick, so strong, so tall._

_I love thee, little barley grain  
For all thy gifts so dear:  
The bread so tender, moist, and sweet  
And for the nut-brown beer._

"Here now, what do you know about beer!" growled Farmer Puddifoot, pulling off his hat and smacking Wat in the head with it.

The awkward silence that followed was finally broken by Esmeralda. "That was very…creative, dear."

"I've done more," said Wat eagerly. "Here's another: _How doth the white little lamb_—"

"I reckon you wrote _that_ 'un while you was supposed to be cleanin' the sheep shears," interjected his father dryly.

Wat blushed.

Falstaff cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my boy, but I think you mean the_ little white_ lamb."

Wat stared at him, puzzled. "Why, Master Goodbody?"

"Because, well, you can't say _white little_ lamb, you know."

"Why not, sir?"

"Because…because it's just not done, that's why," Falstaff finished lamely.

Farmer Puddifoot broke in: "All right now, I've heard about as much of this codswallop as I can stomach." He turned to Rory. "What I want to know is, just what are you plannin' to do about this school o' yourn? I can't have my son moonin' about the farm, shirkin' his chores to write _po'ms_…specially not at this time o' year! Next thing I know he'll be singin' to the sheep 'stead o' shearin' 'em!"

Rory frowned thoughtfully but didn't answer.

"Well?" snapped the farmer impatiently.

"It's no school of mine, Silas!" Rory finally replied, sounding a bit distracted. "You'll have to take up your complaint with Saradoc, or Falstaff here!"

Sara looked pointedly at Falstaff, who sighed and said, "I'll have a word with Frodo about sticking to the assigned lessons. School is nearly over for the season in any event, and perhaps it's best to stop now."

"That's the most sensible thing I've heard all day," declared Silas, though Wat looked disappointed. "Come along son…let's see if some good hard work'll clear all that folderol out of your head! G'day to you Rory, Mistress!" Nodding at the rest, the farmer clapped his hat back on his head and departed.

Once they were gone, Sara turned to Falstaff in bewilderment. "Whatever could have possessed Frodo?"

"It's spring fever," remarked Gilda knowingly. "Which seems to have afflicted some others I could name," she added with an exasperated glance at her husband.

"_How nobly it endureth_," Rory murmured, and now they all looked at him. He was staring up at the ceiling with a bemused expression. "It wasn't half bad, that poem. I wonder…"

"Rory, what are you on about?" snapped Gilda. "You can't read nor write!"

"What of it?" he roared. "That's where Falstaff comes in, eh old scribbler?" Rory slapped the schoolmaster on the back, nearly sending him sprawling. "Come along then, I've a mind to wax poetical, and you're going to write it down…"

Falstaff looked like a hobbit going to his doom, but he was saved by yet another interruption as old Barden Smallburrow rushed in. Brandy Hall's trusted vineyards keeper for many years, Barden had reluctantly been drafted to oversee the pipeweed planting with Hamilcar's guidance.

"Master, you're wanted out to the pipeweed fields at once—there's terrible trouble!"

"What?" cried Rory, springing from his chair. "What do you mean? What's happened?"

"I don't rightly know, but a lot of them seedlings have wilted and flopped over…I fetched Mr. Hornblower and he said somethin' about transplant root rot!"

Rory was already on his way out the door.

Barden followed more slowly, shaking his head and muttering, "Pipeweed in Buckland… 'tisn't natural, I tell you! No good will come of this, mark my words!"

* * *

_In two weeks (I'll be away next week)…  
_Chapter Six: The Buckland Ball

_**Poetry notes:**_

Frodo's and Rory's ditty is a pastiche of an anonymous 16th-century English verse and "A Little Madness in the Spring" by Emily Dickinson.

Frodo's "garden poem" is an excerpt from "Where-e'er You Walk" by Alexander Pope, based on a poem by Virgil.

Wat's poem is _very_ loosely based on "John Barleycorn," English/Scottish traditional.

**Permilea** – Yes, I freely confess that a poet I ain't (as Wat's po'm so clearly demonstrates)…  
So you're acquainted with Udo! I wondered if anyone would be…and I think I'm not revealing too much to say that yes, that is one indignity poor Frodo will NOT be suffering in this story! Though it makes an interesting plot bunny, come to think of it. Or not so much a bunny as a… a… (exactly).  
Thanks! 

**Little-old-me** – It's always a special thrill to hear you've won over someone who was not inclined, at first, to read your story. As you've probably noticed, it's not your typical Fromance. Thanks so much for taking a chance on it, and for letting me know! Hope you enjoy the rest…


	6. The Buckland Ball

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality._  
_Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
__Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair **

_by Inkling  
_

**Chapter Six: The Buckland Ball **

As summer arrived in all its languorous splendor, Frodo felt happier than he had since the death of his parents. Indeed, a sense of profound contentment seemed to have mellowed all the denizens of Brandy Hall.

The pipeweed crop was thriving; the plants maturing and growing rapidly—at least, the ones that had survived transplant root rot, ensuing bouts of blue mold and brown spot, and an infestation of budworms. Rory was thriving too, having survived the acute distress brought on by these afflictions, and was eagerly making preparations for the first harvest. He ordered construction to begin on leaf-curing sheds, built to the specifications of plans Hamilcar had brought with him from Longbottom.

Even Gilda and Hortensia had made their peace, having found common ground in a love of gardening. Gilda's roses were the finest in Buckland, and Hortensia couldn't heap enough praise on them. They spent pleasant hours wandering among the flower beds, talking and planting…that is, Hortensia rhapsodized about the joys of planting while Gilda poked holes in the earth with the end of her cane—her rheumatism made bending painful—dropped in seeds, and used the cane to push the soil back in place.

Fluffy was now able to banish Garm from the hearth with a mere look, and both dogs seemed more at ease now that they had a clearly established routine.

The only one who was not happy was Merry. Whenever he suggested a swimming or fishing excursion, as often as not Frodo said he was busy and disappeared for hours at a time, showing up only for meals with ink stains on his sleeves and a faraway expression on his face. Even when Merry could cajole his cousin into joining him, he would seem distant and preoccupied.

Frodo's own happiness was marred only by the approach of midsummer and with it, the sense of melancholy that settled over him every year around this time. For it was at midsummer that his parents had died. However, he found comfort now in his poetry and his ardent dreams of Hyacinth. And this summer brought a new distraction: now that he was in his tweens, he would be attending the Buckland Ball for the first time.

The prospect was both exciting and more than a little intimidating. To be sure, he had danced the Springle-Ring and the Haysend Stomp at many a local festival or family celebration. But the Buckland Ball was something else entirely—the social event of the season for the landed gentry of Buckland and the Marish. Many a successful match was arranged at the ball, with parents haggling over dowries while their offspring danced and flirted.

Preparations had been underway for weeks, and now all was in readiness. A huge wooden dance floor was laid out in front of Brandy Hall, colored lanterns strung from the trees, refreshment tables set up around the sides, a platform erected for the musicians and caller. The faunts had been put to bed early, Merry complaining loudly all the while, and threatening to climb out his window and watch the festivities from the top of the Buck Hill. His parents were unimpressed.

>>>

An hour before the ball was to begin, Frodo stood before his open wardrobe feeling completely out of his depth. He did not as a rule give much thought to his attire, usually content to throw on whatever garments were lying atop the heap by his bed where he had shed them the night before. He normally wore something until he outgrew it or until Biddy Twofoot, the Brandy Hall laundress, forcibly confiscated it, scolding Frodo that it was so worn and ragged it was fit only for burning.

Now he surveyed his clothing with a newly critical eye, pulling out first one article, then another. A fine cream-colored linen shirt, one that he wore only on holidays, hung clean and pressed on the rack…a good start. And his best black breeches would do nicely, as would the new braces he had received on Saradoc's birthday last month. But then there was the matter of a waistcoat…

While he owned several, none of them seemed quite right. There was the dark, somber one with matching jacket that he wore to graveside ceremonies on Longfather's Day. And the bright woolen ones with silly designs that Aunt Gilda knitted for him every Yule. His rough, everyday weskits were completely out of the question.

Defeated, Frodo sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling like nothing so much as a helpless, bewildered child. He had felt the loss of his parents so often, and in so many different settings over the past eight years, that he thought he had experienced every possible way of missing them. But now he had discovered another: while dressing for his first ball. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to imagine how it would have been. His father would have advised him on what to wear, helping with his cuff links and adjusting his braces. His mother would have fussed over him, combing his hair and telling him how fine he looked…

A soft tap on the door interrupted his wistful reverie. Esmeralda, looking lovely in a crimson satin ball gown, swept in carrying something wrapped up in tissue paper. "Frodo! Why aren't you dressed yet?"

"I have nothing to wear," said Frodo forlornly.

"Oh yes you have!" she smiled, holding out the bundle.

Setting it on his bed, Frodo pulled the tissue paper aside and gasped in amazement and delight. It was a waistcoat, of deep blue damask embroidered with a graceful pattern of vines and flowers, and leaf-shaped buttons of delicately carved bone. It was like nothing he'd ever worn before—elegant and sophisticated, it was grown-up attire.

Frodo looked up at his aunt, and finally found his voice. "Did…did you make this, Aunt Ezzie?"

"Yes indeed…I bought the silk from that trader who came through from Bree last fall and worked the embroidery over the winter. Didn't turn out so badly, did it?" she said with a touch of pride.

"Oh Auntie, it's wonderful!" cried Frodo, flinging himself at her and crushing her in a hug.

"Easy now, lad, or you'll wrinkle my gown," laughed Ezzie, pushing him away. "Quick now, try it on—I want to check the fit." She buttoned it for him, then stepped back for a look and smiled. "It's perfect! Quite the young gentlehobbit you look in it, I must say! You'll be turning the lasses' heads tonight, see if you don't!"

Frodo looked so nervous at this pronouncement that Esmeralda quickly changed the subject. "Now, do you remember the dance steps we practiced this winter? Come on, let's take a quick turn!" And she caught his hands and led him in a lively romp around the room till they were both laughing and breathless.

"Aunt Ezzie…I don't know how to thank you," said Frodo when they finally stopped, still holding her hands in his.

"Enjoy this night, Frodo," she replied softly. "That's all the thanks I want." She reached up to brush a stray curl out of his eyes and added, "Don't forget to comb your hair, now!" before hurrying out.

After dressing and combing his hair, Frodo regarded himself dubiously in the mirror, mentally checking off all his imagined defects: too pale, too thin, too…anxious? He sighed. Still, he was tall enough, at least. And the waistcoat looked very fine indeed.

>>>

It was a lovely night for a dance: the scent of jasmine sweetened the warm, gentle breeze and the crescent moon gleamed like a silver brooch pinned against black velvet, set amidst a thousand glittering gems. Flickering torches and glowing lanterns bathed the hobbits' faces in soft, golden light, lending them a measure of beauty beyond their normal share.

Quite a large gathering was already assembled by the time Frodo left the smial, the ladies gathered in small clusters admiring each other's gowns and the male-folk smoking and jesting by the refreshment tables, downing mugs of ale to fortify themselves for the evening's exertions. Up on the platform, musicians tuned their fiddles and mandolins, or practiced riffs on flute and concertina.

With no effort at all Frodo immediately spotted Hyacinth in a group of other lasses, and the sight took his breath away. Her pink taffeta ball gown shimmered in the torchlight, bringing out the delicate blush of her cheeks and perfectly matching the cluster of roses fastened in her hair. The low-cut neckline bared her white shoulders, sparking a surge of heat in a place Frodo would have blushed to acknowledge. After a moment or two he recovered his wits sufficiently to realize that for once there were no other lads nearby, and that he would likely never have a better chance to secure Hyacinth's promise of a dance.

As he approached the group he could see his cousin Floribunda Brandybuck glance his way and with a smirk lean over to whisper something to the others. Several giggled, and Frodo could feel the blood rushing to his face. But with a great effort of will he kept going.

"Yes, little Cousin Frodo seems to be growing up very nicely," said Mavis Burrows as he walked up, making no particular effort to lower her voice.

"Don't tease him!" reproved Hyacinth, then she turned to Frodo with a friendly smile.

"Hello, Cousin! What a lovely waistcoat!"

Frodo swallowed hard and hoped his voice wouldn't crack. "Thank you, Hyacinth," he managed. "And you, you look…"

But before he could say how she looked a shout went up from the company as the Master and the Mistress of the Hall made their entrance.

"Come on, Frodo!" cried Mavis, seizing him by the elbow, and without knowing quite how it happened, Frodo found himself falling into line for the Grand March with the wrong partner. Looking back over his shoulder unhappily, he could see Hyacinth being escorted to the dance floor by his cousin Cederic.

But there was no time to fret as the music had now commenced, and the hobbits began their promenade around the floor. Rory's brother Saradas was acting as caller. This was not considered a very seemly role for the Master's close kin, but "Big Sara," as he was known, had a good voice and as he enjoyed it, no one was prepared to gainsay him. He now launched into the traditional opening song:

_Strike up drowsy gut-scrapers;  
Gallants, be ready  
Each with his Lady;  
Foot it about  
Till the Night be run out;  
Let no one's humour pall_

Rory, never able for long to watch someone else having more fun than he was, now leaped up on the musicians' stand and, throwing his arm around his brother, sang along with him on the last verse:

_Brisk lads, now cut your capers;  
Put your legs to't,  
And show you can do't;  
Frisk, frisk it away  
Till break of Day,  
And hey for Buckland Ball!_

The crowd joined in on the last line and a cheer went up as the song ended. Without further ado the band struck up the Black Bull—a fast reel—and the dancing began in earnest. The hobbits quickly formed into sets of six couples, with partners facing each other in two lines.

"Honor your partner!" called Saradas, and the lines advanced and bowed or curtseyed, then stepped back again.

"Forward and turn with the right hand round," came the next call, and the hobbits at the head and foot of the lines advanced to meet in the middle, join hands and turn once about before returning to their places.

Frodo was still paired with Mavis but spoke to her very little, pretending to concentrate on his steps. As the dance progressed, the two of them gradually moved up to the head of their lines.

"Top couple reel the set! Right to your partner, left to the next!"

As he went down the line, linking arms and swinging each lady round in turn, Frodo tried to catch a glimpse of Hyacinth, but she and Cederic were dancing in another group and he couldn't see them without craning his neck rather obviously. He found himself swinging round with Esmeralda, who winked at him.

When Saradas announced the Merry Maiden as the next dance, Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, he would be able to change partners.

The Merry Maiden was for tweens only, so was not considered a courtship dance in the same sense as those reserved for eligible hobbits—that is, ones who had already come of age. It was intended rather as a wholesome introduction to the art of flirting. At least, that was the idea. But the reality was that the tween years covered a lot of ground, and there was a yawning gap between a shy lad of twenty, just out of puberty, and a worldly lass of thirty-one or thirty-two—expert in outwitting her chaperones and impatient to come of age.

So the dance always made for some interesting situations, and was watched with great amusement by the older hobbits. It was one of the few dances that called for partners to change midway through. And it was a kissing dance… which meant that Saradas could, at his discretion, call _honor your partner_ or _kiss your partner_.

After starting off with some standard reel patterns, Saradas then called one of the Merry Maiden's signature steps, the High Hey, drawing a ripple of laughter from dancers and onlookers alike. The term was strictly a Buckland joke. The hobbits formed two circles, lasses on the inside, lads out, and moved past each other in opposite directions, weaving in and out in a serpentine pattern and clasping hands at shoulder height as they passed.

"Change partners!" called Big Sara, and when they stopped Frodo found himself opposite Floribunda. She flashed him a predatory grin and he groaned inwardly. _Please don't let it be…_

There was a moment of suspense until Saradas, after a cruelly long pause, announced, "Honor your partner!"

Sighs of disappointment were heard from the onlookers as the tweens greeted each other politely before re-forming into reel lines. Hyacinth was now in Frodo's group, paired with Rob Maggot, and his spirits rose a little. At least he would get the chance to swing once round with her as she and Rob went down the dance.

It was during a Straight Hey, the two lines passing alternately to the left and right, that it happened: without warning Sara again called, "Change partners!"

The dancers immediately froze in place, and Frodo could hardly believe his good fortune—smiling at him across the line was Hyacinth! His heart began racing wildly. Coronel stood next to him, newly paired with Lila Meriwether, a shy, pretty lass barely into her tweens and, like Frodo, attending her first ball.

And now it was time for the new partners to exchange greetings. But which would it be: _honor your partner_, or…

"Kiss your partner!" sang out Saradas.

Anyone not already watching the dancers eagerly turned towards them now. On Frodo's right, Blossom Fairchild and Cosmo Broadfoot, older tweens who were practically betrothed, needed no second urging to bound forward and engage in a rather lusty and prolonged clinch, to the approving cheers of the crowd. To the left, Lila stared at Coronel with all the wide-eyed terror of a coney in a trap. She closed her eyes and held her breath, but Coronel only smiled and, stepping forward, brushed a chaste kiss on her cheek. Her eyes flew open again and a curious mix of relief and indignation flashed across her face.

Suddenly Frodo realized that everyone else had followed Sara's instructions, and the entire group was now waiting—for him. Even the musicians were marking time. Hyacinth was looking at him expectantly, but still Frodo stood as if rooted to the ground. How often had he imagined this moment—but not like this, with half of Buckland looking on! He heard hoots and calls coming from the audience.

Finally Saradas himself intervened, shouting, "Well nephew, are you going to get on with it before the night ends?" A roar of laughter went up at this.

Taking a deep breath, Frodo advanced and bowed.

Some murmurs arose: "What's he up to, that wasn't the call!"

But Frodo wasn't finished. He took Hyacinth's hand and, bending over it, brushed it with a light kiss.

"Ohhh," sighed more than one matron in the crowd. "Isn't he the perfect little gentlehobbit! So proper and courteous!"

Hyacinth herself appeared surprised, but nonetheless pleased. And then the dancers were off again, as Saradas sang:

_The merry merry maiden  
The merry merry maiden  
Sing hey the merry maiden and the squire!_

When the dance finally ended in a burst of applause and laughter, the musicians paused and laid down their instruments. Frodo was glad for the respite, needing time to catch his breath and settle his nerves. But now he found himself confronted with a new challenge. Hyacinth seemed to be waiting for him to do something again, and he struggled to recall Esmeralda's instructions on ball etiquette. _At the end of a set always escort your partner from the floor, and inquire if she will take some refreshment._ With some trepidation he offered her his arm, and was relieved when she took it. Encouraged by this success, he ventured, "May I bring you a cup of punch, Hyacinth?"

"Why yes, Frodo, thank you!" she smiled. "I'm frightfully parched after that set."

He escorted Hyacinth to the refreshment tables, where her mother and some of the ladies of the Hall quickly waylaid them.

"How charmingly you danced, my dear," gushed Hortensia. "And such fine manners displayed by your young partner here—Dodo, isn't it?" she added with a magnanimous nod to Frodo. "Really, I hardly expected such refinement in these parts."

Several affronted gasps and dark looks met this last remark. Feeling a sudden, intense desire to be elsewhere, Frodo fetched Hyacinth's punch, then fled to safer ground.

He wandered over to the musicians' stand, where young Curley Brownlock was playing lead fiddle. One of the hired hands on the Brandybuck estate, Curley had formed the other half of Frodo's infamous Bunce brothers reenactment during the Blotmath's Eve revelries of 1383. He had only grown more stolid and taciturn with age, but Frodo knew how to break through that seemingly impassive exterior.

"'Twas only a grape!" he whispered as he sidled up to him, and smiled as Curley started and blushed.

"Go on with you Master Frodo," he frowned, though Frodo saw the telltale hint of a twinkle in his eye. "I'm busy with me music, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Indeed I _hadn't_ noticed, Master Corwin!" Frodo replied teasingly. "If anyone were to ask me, in fact, I should have said that you were taking a break just now." Since Frodo had never succeeded in getting Curley to stop calling him Master, he had resorted instead to addressing him in kind…a practice that irked Curley no end.

"Well I reckon we earned it, didn't we," he countered, "after working so hard to give you lads a chance to get in a kiss and a squeeze—a chance, I might add, that was purely wasted by some as I saw on the floor!" He was grinning broadly now, and it was Frodo's turn to blush.

Back at the refreshment tables, Hortensia was growing bored. "The Black Bull and the Merry Maiden are all very well for the young people," she drawled, drawing a fan from her bodice, snapping it open, and waving it languidly. "But what I truly long for is a gay ländler!"

Rory's sisters Amaranth and Asphodel exchanged puzzled glances. "What's a…_ländler_?" asked Amaranth, pronouncing the strange word hesitantly.

"Why, it's a dance, of course," replied Hortensia in a slightly superior tone.

"It's all the rage in Bree," Hyacinth put in eagerly.

_"Bree?" _Am was now completely nonplussed. 

"Yes, Hamilcar does such a lot of business there that we've taken a small house in Breetown," Hortensia said casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "We often go up for the season, they do throw such amusing parties! With so many travelers coming in from goodness knows where, they're always up on all manner of new fashions and dances long before we hear about them in the Shire."

Amaranth became very quiet at this. But Asphodel was not so easily daunted. "So," she pursued skeptically, "just what's so special about this _ländler_ you were speaking of?"

"Well, the ländler is…it's like nothing you've ever imagined," said Hortensia dreamily. "It's as close to flying as you can get, without ever leaving the ground…" She trailed off, then sighed. "But what's the use in trying to explain…it's hopeless without the music."

Hamilcar was standing nearby, deep in discussion with Rory on the best method of curing pipeweed. While he had not appeared to be listening to the ladies' conversation, he turned toward them now with an indulgent smile. "I say there, Benton," he called to one of his servants, who was hovering at a discreet but convenient distance, "you're handy with the old 'gut scraper'…come over and play us a ländler, there's a good fellow!"

Benton bowed. "Very good, sir." He approached Curley. "By your leave…?" he said courteously.

Curley relinquished his fiddle with some reluctance, then looked on in surprise as Benton drew the bow gently across the strings, producing a soft, tremulous note quite unlike the instrument's usual sprightly sound. After several more trials and tuning adjustments, he began to play.

Curley stood as one spellbound, listening to the unfamiliar music. "Well I never—he's playing in three-quarters time!" he said, his voice soft with wonder.

Frodo, who was not very knowledgeable about things musical, looked at him blankly.

"I mean the song has a three-count beat, with the first count being the strongest. Listen, and you'll hear it: ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three…"

Frodo did hear it: a rolling, infectious rhythm. But it was the melody that enthralled him, a melody that seemed to overflow with longing, desire, and tenderness. Its haunting beauty filled him with rapture, even as tears sprang to his eyes.

One by one the other musicians began to play along with Benton, hesitantly at first, but growing gradually stronger and more confident as they mastered the strange new rhythm. The music swelled joyously, stilling conversation and jolting the senses of all who heard it like an intoxicating draught.

And now the senior Hornblowers were stepping out onto the dance floor. He bowed, she curtsied…and that was the last recognizable thing they did. Hortensia stepped in very close to her husband, until their bodies were almost touching, and placed her hand on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm about her waist, then stooped and with his free hand gathered up her skirt and petticoats so that they cleared the floor by several inches. The crowd gasped.

"I can see her…_limbs_!" said Asphodel in a stage whisper. At that there was a sudden stampede of male hobbits trying to get a better view of the dance floor. While Hortensia was on the far side of sixty and had a figure that could best be described as _healthy_, she was still undeniably attractive.

Then they were off, gliding gracefully around the floor to the music's lilting strains in a way that was most remarkable to see. With each three-count measure they made a full turn, even as they circled the floor. Hamilcar held his wife so close that they moved as one, their steps executed in perfect union.

An excited murmur arose from their captivated audience. "Positively indecent," someone muttered. "Look at them pressin' themselves together, just like somethin' else I could mention but won't!" But others glanced speculatively at their partners…_Was it possible? Perhaps, just perhaps…_

Hyacinth was watching her parents longingly, swaying a little with the music. As they whirled by, Hortensia called out: "Horatio! Ask your sister to dance!"

"_No!"_ cried Hyacinth and Horatio in unison, the same look of horror on both of their faces.

Suddenly Coronel was standing in front of Hyacinth, bowing. "May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Hornblower?"

She stared at him in surprise. "You know it?"

Coronel grinned cockily. "The Hornblowers aren't the only fashionable folk in the Shire, you know!" he said, clasping her slender waist and taking up her skirts. If there had been a stampede before, now a minor brawl broke out at the edge of the dance floor. "Some of my Took relatives have done a bit of traveling in their time, and learned a thing or two along the way—like the ländler!" As he said this last he spun her about, and then they sailed off across the floor.

If the onlookers had thought the Hornblowers looked well dancing, now their eyes were opened to the ländler's real glory. In Coronel's arms Hyacinth seemed almost to be floating, a lovely, ethereal creature with laughing eyes and flushed cheeks. Around and around they twirled as the music played ever faster, never missing a step—a perfectly matched pair. Hamilcar and Hortensia had long since given it up and retreated to the sidelines, panting and red-faced, where Hortensia collapsed in a chair and called weakly for water as she fanned herself.

Frodo watched, mesmerized, along with everyone else. As he did so, envy overtook amazement and he felt his first twinge of unease about Coronel. The older tween seemed to be enjoying himself entirely too much, considering his position as Frodo's confidant and messenger. With even greater alarm he noted the look of blissful abandon on Hyacinth's face, her eyes now closed as in a happy dream.

Just then, as if he could read Frodo's thoughts, Coronel paused on their next pass near him. "Care to give it a try, lad?" he said with a wink. Hyacinth smiled at him encouragingly.

At the heady prospect of taking her in his arms, Frodo was sorely tempted to abandon all reason and say _yes!_ But it was clear to him that the ländler was far beyond his newly acquired dancing skills, and that they wouldn't take two steps before he tripped up Hyacinth, or himself, or both. This thought proved the more compelling of the two, and he quickly shook his head.

Coronel shrugged and smiled. "As you please," he said, and off they flew again.

A final flourish from the fiddler, a bow and curtsey from the dancers, and it was over. The hobbits applauded wildly, and moments later were clustered about the breathless couple, peppering them with questions about the exotic new dance.

Curley was huddled with Benton, saying, "Now show me again how you play that bit—and what did you say it was called?"

"That, my friend, was the Merry Widow," said Benton reverently.

Eventually, everyone settled down and went back to their reels. But the seed was planted, and within a season or two the ländler had spread from Longbottom, the Great Smials, and Buckland to every corner of the land as its seductive music and scandalous steps took the Shire by storm.

Frodo returned to the dance floor too, but now found himself making some errors. He took in stride the good-natured ribbing about "beginners' nerves," but did not get another opportunity to dance or speak with Hyacinth for the remainder of the ball.

>>>

As the moon sank behind the Buck Hill, Saradoc gently lifted a sleeping Merry from the damp grass.

* * *

_Next week  
_Chapter Seven: Awakening 

_**Dance notes:**_

The ländler was a forerunner of the Viennese waltz, the dance that swept across Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, transforming social dance forever after. I used the term _ländler_ in this story because it sounds less recognizably modern than _waltz_, and was in any case the older form of the dance. Here is a first-hand account of a village dance in the latter part of the eighteenth century: 

_The men dancers held up the dresses of their partners very high so that they should not trail and be stepped on, wrapped themselves both tightly in the covering, bringing their bodies as closely together as possible, and thus whirling about went on in the most indecent positions...  
__As they waltzed around on the darker side of the room, the kissing and the hugging became still bolder. It is the custom of the country, I know, and not as bad as it looks, but I can quite understand why the waltz has been banned in parts of Swabia and Switzerland._

The reaction of the hobbits is the reaction the waltz first met with wherever it appeared, particularly among the very straitlaced British. The close contact with one's partner contrasted sharply with the more stately minuets and quadrilles popular among the aristocracy, or even with the livelier English country dancing such as the Sir Roger de Coverly (known in America as the Virginia Reel)—in which one kept at arm's length distance from one's partner. 

In 1816, this scathing editorial appeared in _The Times_ of London:

_We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last ... it is quite sufficient to cast one's eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressure on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion._

One last thing, then I'll shut up (on this subject, at least)…the Viennese waltz should not be confused with the sedate, Arthur Miller-type imitation one sees at weddings. The real thing is a difficult and exhilarating dance in which you must spin _360 degrees _on every three-count measure, while at the same time circling the room with all the other dancers. That's why waltz music is fairly slow…the dance would be impossible otherwise. Just stand in the middle of the room and try this once or twice, and you'll see what I mean!

_**Music notes:**_

Except for a small alteration in the last line (changing Richmond to Buckland), the Buckland Ball's opening song is from "A Song made by Mr. Tho. D'Urfey upon a new Country Dance at Richmond, called, Mr. Lane's Magot" in John Playford's _The English Dancing Master_, London, 1651.

The Merry Maiden lyrics adapted from Dick Deadeye's duet with Captain Corcoran in _H.M.S. Pinafore_ by Gilbert & Sullivan.

"The Merry Widow Waltz" is from the 1905 operetta _The Merry Widow_ by Hungarian composer Franz Lehàr. Some waltzes are stately, some sprightly, some triumphal or "happily ever after." Many are more famous but to me, there is no waltz lovelier than this one.

**_Response to reviews:_ **

Ah, Endymion, I do enjoy your observant reviews! As you guessed, there is a story behind the "white little lamb" exchange…it refers to a formative moment in Tolkien's childhood, one in fact that he credits with awakening his lifelong interest in language. When he was about 7, he wrote a story about a "green great dragon." His mother corrected him, saying it had to be "great green dragon." In his letters, Tolkien relates how he didn't understand why then, and still didn't, but that wondering about it made him curious about language in general. I don't know why it is myself, but in English if one of two adjectives preceding a noun is a color, it always goes second.

The choice of "Udo" as Frodo's alias is a tribute to _Once on a Time_, a quirky sort of adult fairy tale written by A. A. Milne before _Winnie the Pooh_ ever saw the light of day. Its main characters are the lovely Princess Hyacinth, the hapless Prince Udo, and—you guessed it—his friend Coronel. But I didn't know Udo was a common name in Germany, or what it meant…how interesting!

Thou and thine…this is complicated. I'm no expert on archaic English grammar, but I'll give it a shot.

Nominative singular: THOU  
Nominative plural: YE  
Objective singular: THEE  
Objective plural: YOU

After the Norman conquest the English adopted the French practice of using the plural forms of address in formal, polite company, or to superiors. So to address someone as "thou," unless you were on intimate terms, became an insult. But the English were never very consistent about this, and eventually thou and thee fell out of use altogether, except in religious and poetic/literary contexts…AND in some old-fashioned rural communities, where it survived as an intimate form of address. Tolkien sometimes uses it this way in LOTR—when Eowyn switches from "you" to "thee" in addressing Aragorn, it's a signal to him—and to us—that she has fallen in love with him. And in Tolkien's epilogue that appears in _The End of the Third Age_, Sam addresses Rosie as "thee" in a moment of intimacy. From this I have assumed that in rural Buckland, this would also be the practice.

"Hey nonny nonny"...yes, the Violent Femmes liked that phrase too!


	7. Awakening

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair **

_by Inkling _

**Chapter 7: Awakening**

That night Frodo tossed in restive dreams, once again at the ball. But now it was he who danced the ländler with Hyacinth while everyone else looked on. Coronel was the caller, and his voice rose above the music:

_I love thee, as I love the calm  
Of sweet, star-lighted hours!  
I love thee, as I love the balm  
Of early jasmine flow'rs._

Around the floor they whirled in breathless exhilaration, the ball fading away in a blur of lights and colors until there was nothing left but the two of them. Hyacinth's eyes were shining and her hair floated out behind her as they spun ever faster, Frodo's arm clasped tightly about her waist. The stars danced above them to a music of their own, and the moonlight glimmered on Hyacinth's white shoulders.

And now Coronel was calling, _Kiss your partner!_ with a wink and a leer. They slowed their steps as the music stilled, and Frodo drew her yet closer, until he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Her smile as she gazed at him was tender and inviting.

Frodo brushed soft curls back from her nape, thrilling to the feel of warm, silky skin beneath his touch. Slowly, caressingly his fingers traced the graceful curve of her neck, then rested a moment at the hollow of her throat to savor the quickening pulse there before reaching up to cradle her face and gently tilt it toward his own. The light in her eyes now kindled to dark fire, until at last her lashes drifted down and her lips parted slightly as he lowered his mouth to hers…and awoke.

He shot upright in bed, taut and trembling with sharp, aching need, his breath coming in gasps and his nightshirt damp and clinging. The light of a full moon streamed in and pooled on his pillow, its radiance bright enough to read—or write—by.

Knowing he would find no more sleep that night, Frodo slipped out of bed and knelt down to pull out his wooden box. He spread out his writing materials and dipped his pen, but then hesitated. It wasn't enough, not to assuage the intense desire for Hyacinth's physical presence that now consumed him.

Frodo's gaze went again to the window. Somewhere on the other side of the smial Hyacinth slept, and he imagined her nestled against soft linen, her dark tresses fanned out around her face, one arm flung restlessly across the bed…

Abruptly he rose and, swiftly repacking the box, tucked it under his arm and scrambled out of the window. He dropped lightly to the ground and crept along the darkened rows of windows lining the Buck Hill. That large one marked Rory's bedchamber, he knew, then came the rooms of Sara and Esmeralda, then Merimac and his family…

Finally he came to the windows of the primary guest quarters—the finest rooms reserved for Brandy Hall's most important visitors. The first, and largest, would undoubtedly be occupied by Hamilcar and his wife. He looked at the next two, considering, and decided that the Hornblowers would put Hyacinth in the chamber next to theirs.

Settling down beneath the chosen window with a happy sigh, oblivious to the dew-drenched grass, Frodo once again took up his pen:

_I arise from dreams of thee  
In the first sweet sleep of night,  
When the winds are breathing low,  
And the stars are shining bright._

_I arise from dreams of thee,  
And a spirit in my feet  
Has led me—who knows how?  
To thy chamber-window, sweet! _

He paused to gaze up at the dark window, recalling now the fragrant scent of roses as he bent over Hyacinth's hand, her skin soft as petals against his lips, and felt overcome by longing and self-reproach. Why, oh why had he been such a fool—no, a coward—not to kiss her properly when he had the chance? He slammed his fist against the ground in frustration, then resumed writing with renewed passion:

_Oh, lift me from the grass!  
I die! I faint! I fail!  
Let thy love in kisses rain  
On my lips and eyelids pale. _

_My cheek is cold and white, alas!  
My heart beats loud and fast—  
Oh! press it close to thine own, my love,  
Where it will break at last!_

The pen falling now from his hand, Frodo closed his eyes, giving himself over at last to his fevered emotions. He rose, trembling, and took a step toward the window, not quite sure what he was doing but unable to stop himself.

Now he stood directly below it and looked up in helpless desperation. "Hyacinth?" he whispered softly. There was no sound from within. "Hyacinth?" he called again, a little more loudly.

This time he was answered by a shrill, angry yapping.

"Fluffy?" came a drowsy female voice…and it was _not_ the voice of his beloved. "What is it, girl?"

Frodo sprang back in a panic, even as a second, deeper voice complained, "Hortensia! Make that daft beast shut up!"

From the kennel came a mournful howl as Garm took up the cry.

"Now Ham, you know Fluffy is a superb watchdog and never sounds an alarm without good cause! There must be something out there, so you'd best investigate!"

A light flared in the window but by the time a nightcapped head emerged, blinking blearily, Frodo had gathered up his belongings and fled into the night.

>>>

On the following afternoon Frodo and Coronel were in the apple orchard, the elder tween sprawled lazily in the grass while the younger sat hunched tensely beside him.

"That one was…the best yet," said Coronel with a dreamy expression on his face, as if reliving a pleasant memory.

"Really? What did she say?" Frodo asked, trembling with excitement.

"Say? It's not so much what she _said_—although she did murmur something about dear Prince Udo—no no, it's what she _did_…" he trailed off, then noticed Frodo looking at him expectantly. "Sorry lad! Well, upon reading your passionate verse she…was quite overcome with emotion, and she—she nearly swooned. If I hadn't caught her she would have, I think."

"Oh!" cried Frodo in dismay. "I should have realized how such bold language would affect her delicate sensibilities…I hope she was all right?"

"Yes, quite, she came round again in no time." Abruptly Coronel's mood seemed to change and, propping himself up on his elbows, he frowned at his cousin. "But now that you mention it, Frodo, I'm starting to think that perhaps this _is_ all a bit too much for her."

Completely blindsided by this turn in the conversation, Frodo stared at him in surprise and alarm. "What—what do you mean?" he faltered.

"I mean all these poems, of course! After all, they _are_ rather strong stuff for an impressionable lass like Hyacinth. I don't know if her nerves can take many more like the one you sent today!"

"But Coronel," began Frodo.

His cousin cut him off. "And there's another thing as well…it's getting rather tiresome, this role of delivery boy! I was glad to help out a friend in need and all that, but this has gone on for too long, I'm starting to think. I've my own affairs to attend to, you know!"

For all his annoyance with Coronel at the ball, the sudden prospect of losing his assistance threw Frodo into a panic. "Coronel, you know how much I appreciate all you've done for me! Please, there must be some way I can make it worth your while to continue, if you'd only tell me how," he pleaded.

For a long minute Coronel was silent. Then he glanced up, his eyes sharp with cunning. "Worth my while? All right then, I'll tell you what you can do if you really want to show your appreciation."

"Anything!" said Frodo eagerly.

"Well, I've heard that you have something of a talent for mushroom harvesting," Coronel remarked with a conspiratorial wink.

Frodo's face quickly fell. "I…don't do that anymore," he muttered.

Coronel continued relentlessly, "Yes indeed, your exploits in the fields of Farmer Maggot, cultivator of the finest mushrooms in the Eastfarthing, are spoken of with great admiration by the other lads of the Hall." He watched Frodo closely, marking well his discomfort. "I must say that I have rather a fancy to sample these famous mushrooms myself, just to see what all the fuss is about! So why don't you nip over to Bamfurlong Farm tomorrow and pinch me a few, eh?"

"Didn't you hear me Coronel, I said I don't do that now!" snapped Frodo. Then he quickly added, in a more placating tone, "I'm sorry, Cousin, but I just can't get you any of Farmer Maggot's mushrooms. Ask anything else of me, and I'll do it gladly, but…not that."

"No Frodo, I've named my terms and I'll not back down now," Coronel insisted firmly. "It's Maggot's mushrooms or nothing!"

Frodo made no reply.

"Very well," said Coronel after a pause, "in that case, I've delivered my last poem!"

At this Frodo met Coronel's eyes with a look of pure anguish. He seemed about to speak, but suddenly jumped up and stalked away.

Coronel lay back in the grass and breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Well, that should finish it," he murmured.

>>>

A bedraggled figure dashed toward the Bucklebury Ferry, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as he ran. His breeches were torn in several places and his shirt was partially pulled loose from the waistband, one brace slipping off his shoulder. A frenzied cacophony of barking could be heard growing rapidly nearer as he stumbled onto the dock and almost fell, choking back a sob. Just as he cast off, four large and ferocious-looking wolfhounds raced up to the dock, barking and growling.

"Yah!" he shouted at them defiantly. "Guess you'll have to go home hungry!"

But his bravado was short-lived, and by the time he reached the farther shore and started slowly up the path toward Brandy Hall, he seemed exhausted and in pain.

>>>

When Frodo reached the Hall, he knew that Maggot had arrived before him by the look on his Aunt Asphodel's face when she met him at the door. "You're wanted in the kitchen," she said curtly. "And don't be hoping to get off easy, either…they found weevils in the pipeweed fields today and your uncle is in a foul temper!"

The farmer was standing by the hearth flanked by Rory and Sara: a stony-faced tribunal called to pass judgment on his crimes. Frodo paused in the doorway, wondering bleakly how many times such a sight had confronted him.

"Here he is at last, the varmint!" growled Rory. "Frodo, Farmer Maggot and I would like a word with you, if you can spare us a minute!"

Frodo leaned against the doorframe, feeling slightly sick.

"Stop stalling and get yourself over here," his uncle ordered, glowering at him.

Straightening up with an effort, Frodo limped toward the hearth.

Rory looked at him sharply. "What ails you, boy? And what's happened to your clothes? Biddy'll have a fit when she finds you've torn up another pair of breeches!"

Frodo just stood there, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Come lad, speak up now," encouraged Sara.

But Frodo remained stubbornly silent, only shooting a sidelong glance at Farmer Maggot.

Now thoroughly exasperated, Rory strode forward and grasped Frodo's shoulder, giving it a shake. "Now see here Frodo, when I ask you a quest—" but he broke off suddenly as Frodo winced at his touch. "Turn around, lad," he said more gently. Carefully he lifted Frodo's shirt to briefly expose some angry red welts running up his back. Similar marks could be seen on the backs of his legs.

Rory stood quite still for a moment, then turned slowly toward the farmer. "Might you be knowing something about this, Harlan?" he said with an air of exaggerated calm that fooled no one.

"'Course I know something about it," blustered Maggot, not one to be intimidated. "I gave the scamp a good hiding before I had my dogs run him off my land!"

Rory's simmering anger exploded in an instant. "This time you've gone too far, Maggot!"

The farmer stared at him in surprise. "What are you on about, Rory? Haven't you always said what that boy needs is a cane to his backside?"

"That's as may be…but if and when Frodo needs a thrashing 'twill be _me_ that sees to it, not some muddy-footed mushroom farmer from the wrong side o' the River!"

Sara, with a skill born of long experience, quickly stepped between them.

Maggot eyed Rory balefully. "Well well Rory, so your true colors come out now, do they? Aye, and in truth it's no more'n I'd expect from you. The apple don't fall far from the tree they say, and I reckon I shouldn't be surprised that you'd take this young miscreant's side…"

"Just what are you getting at, eh?" said Rory. But there was now a hint of unease in his voice.

"Well now…" Maggot was taking his time, savoring the words in his slow Eastfarthing drawl. "I do seem to recall my old gaffer telling me stories when I was a lad, about troubles he used to have with the local lads stealing his crops. And by his account the biggest thief—_the worst young rascal of Buckland_, were his very words—was a certain Rorimac Brandybuck."

Utter silence greeted this news. Frodo stared at his uncle with amazement—and a new-found respect—as Rory flushed deeply.

"Yes indeed," Maggot continued with obvious relish, seeing that he'd hit his mark, "Gran'dad said as how he almost had to give up growing mushrooms, he lost so many to you!"

"That was a long time ago," muttered Rory. "We're all of us young once after all, Maggot!"

"Yes, we are that, Master," replied the farmer coolly. "But if this particular youngster sets foot on my land ever again, then I can't answer for what any dogs of mine do to him, for I won't be calling them off!"

Rory's face had now turned an alarming shade of purple; he looked angrier than Frodo had ever seen him. "And should it come to that, Maggot, then I can't answer for any arrows of mine that end up in your dogs' throats!" he roared.

Saradoc was now physically separating the two hobbits, and for one wild moment Frodo wanted to laugh, as an image flashed through his mind of Sara doing exactly the same thing with Merry and Berry at dinner. But this was quickly replaced by a more sobering thought. _They won't back down, either of them._ And then it dawned on him: he and he alone could resolve the standoff. "Stop it, please!" he cried.

They both stared at him.

"It _won't_ come to that, for I won't be visiting your fields again, Farmer Maggot."

As suddenly calm as moments before he was livid, Maggot regarded him thoughtfully. "Well Frodo Baggins, a thief you may be but I've never known you to lie," he mused, "and in all the useless apologies you've given me these many years, you never once promised not to do it again. So if you're promising now, I reckon I can take you at your word."

"You can," said Frodo, meeting the farmer's gaze steadily.

"All right then, so be it." Maggot now looked a little sheepish and glanced sideways at Rory. "If I, ah, got a mite carried away just now, Rory, I…"

"Forget it, Harley, and get on back to your precious mushrooms," said Rory gruffly, "before anyone else makes off with them."

Maggot laughed. "I'm not so worrited about them now as I was," he said.

After he had left, Rory sighed wearily, then turned to Frodo. "And as for _you_, you young scoundrel," he began, with something less than his usual vehemence.

But before he could say anything more Frodo hurled himself at his uncle and gave him a quick, fierce hug before rushing out of the room.

Rory stood staring after him, for once at a loss for words. "Well, I'll be hog-tied!" he murmured at last.

>>>

Frodo's dinner was sent to his room that night for the first time in years. But he didn't mind the banishment as he knew what whispers and stares would have greeted him at the table, and couldn't bear the thought of Hyacinth seeing him in the depths of his humiliation.

There was a rap at his door, and he opened it to find Coronel standing there, looking uncharacteristically ill at ease. "Hullo Frodo," he said.

Feeling equally uncomfortable, Frodo looked away and mumbled, "I'm sorry Coronel, I tried but I…couldn't get you any mushrooms."

"I know what happened, lad," said his cousin contritely, "and I'm sorry for putting you up to it. Hope you're not too banged up?"

"I'll live," said Frodo briefly. After an awkward silence he forced himself to add, "So that's it then…"

"That's what?"

"You won't take any more poems to Hyacinth."

Coronel looked at Frodo's bruises and forlorn expression, and sighed. "Oh, very well Cousin, I suppose I can still manage it…if you write them, I'll deliver them."

* * *

_Next week  
_Chapter Eight: Udo Unmasked 

**_Poetry notes:_ **

Coronel's call in Frodo's dream is, again, an excerpt from "I Love Thee" by Eliza Acton.  
Frodo's "night poem" is an excerpt from "The Indian Serenade" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

_**Response to reviews:**_

Hi Endymion, thanks for your review…I learn so much from you, too! For example, that's an excellent point about the caller…you certainly don't see any in, say, Jane Austen's books. Oh well, I can only hope most of my readers aren't as well informed as you! The tango, now wouldn't THAT would be an eye-opener for the hobbits, LOL!

I just googled Udo and you're right, not much to be found. _Once on a Time_ (1917) is out of print, though available used (I have a 1922 edition with gorgeous illustrations). It's a strange little story, part anti-war satire (written while Milne was serving in WWI) and part whimsical fairy tale. Prince Udo spends most of it under a spell that has turned him into a…very odd creature that seems, in a weird sort of way, a precursor for the animals of the Pooh stories.


	8. Udo Unmasked

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Eight: Udo Unmasked **

And so as summer waned Frodo and Coronel carried on with their old arrangement, and all seemed as it had been before. Yet somehow it was not the same…Frodo's giddy euphoria of spring and early summer had given way to a growing disquiet that he could not account for rationally, making it all the more troubling. His relations with Coronel had cooled considerably since the mushroom incident, and while Frodo knew he should be grateful to his cousin for continuing to serve as messenger, he somehow found himself instead developing an unreasoning resentment of him.

Coronel himself seemed not nearly so agreeable about the whole thing as he had been in the beginning, and even went so far as to offer occasional suggestions or criticisms of the poems—all of which Frodo ignored. He had also grown far less forthcoming about Hyacinth's reactions, usually saying little more than, "She liked it well enough, I suppose. She really didn't say much about it." This only served to dampen Frodo's spirits all the more, and he began to fret over the possibility that Hyacinth was growing weary of his verses. His anxiety began to manifest itself in the poems themselves, much to Coronel's displeasure.

Relations between Rory and Hamilcar Hornblower had begun to sour as well, as problems continued to plague the pipeweed fields with relentless regularity. Recent attacks of suckfly, spotted wilt, and black shank had seriously thinned the crop to the point that the harvest yield was now projected at less than half the original estimates.

>>>

Rory stood amidst a field of maturing pipeweed, a scowl on his face and an enormous green caterpillar with jaunty white stripes caught between his thumb and forefinger. Cursing profusely, he whipped a knife from his belt, sliced the writhing creature in two, and hurled the pieces to the ground. Then he grimly surveyed the nearby plants, their broad leaves ragged with holes.

At his side, Hamilcar tsked and shook his head. "Pipeweed hornworm…such a pity! And just when the plants had bounced back so nicely from the black shank…"

Rory glared at him. "_Pity_? It's a disaster! At the rate these blasted creatures eat, the crop'll be wiped out in a fortnight! What's to be done?"

"I'm afraid there's not much one _can _do against the insatiable appetite of the hornworm," said Hamilcar with a resigned sigh.

Rory fixed him with a hard stare. "You seem mighty calm about all this, Hornblower," he said suspiciously.

"Why Rory, my friend! I feel as strongly for your misfortune as if it were my own."

"That's mighty big of you, Ham, to have such compassion for a _future competitor_!" His tone sharpened suddenly on these last words.

Hamilcar looked deeply wounded. "Surely you're not suggesting that I would hope for the failure of a fellow pipeweed grower!" he said in an aggrieved tone. "That's hard sir, very hard, if you should think so ill of me! I have never been more sincere in my life than when I say it's a terrible shame…"

"Indeed it is," said Rory slowly, a shrewd gleam in his eye. "'Specially as I was fixing to make you a junior partner in this little venture."

Hamilcar's expression of mournful piety instantly gave way to one of calculating avarice. "A—a partner…?"

"That's right…a partial ownership share in the pipeweed crop—and the profits. I was just having the papers drawn up, and was going to surprise you this very day."

Hamilcar gazed out over the fields for several long minutes, appearing pensive. Finally he turned back to Rory. "Old chap, there's something not commonly known among pipeweed growers, in fact you might say it's a Hornblower family secret, and I wouldn't confide it to just anyone. But your plight moves me, it truly does. And, ah, seeing as how we're to be _partners_… Well sir, the fact of the matter is this: the only way to defeat the pipeweed hornworm is to release a swarm of paper wasps in the fields. Back home we raise hives of 'em for just that purpose! If we send a message to Longbottom by quick post today, I reckon we could have several hives brought up by week's end. You see, the wasps prey on the worms and feed them to their young, and…"

Rory smiled.

>>>

Back at the Hall, the younger hobbits were playing bumblepuppy on a stretch of lawn in front of the smial. Glumly Frodo watched Hyacinth being chatted up, as usual, by his older cousins.

Just now, Cederic was gallantly helping her take a shot. "There's a secret to bowling technique, Hy, it's all in when you release the ball…you have to time it just right. And you have to lean into it, like this." He stood just behind her, and closed his hand over hers to take a practice swing.

Frodo seethed at his audacity. How dare he paw her so?

"Do you mean like this?" asked Hyacinth, pulling away from him to step forward, sink gracefully to one knee, and send her ball speeding down the green. With a satisfying _thwack_ it knocked Cederic's own ball away from the edge of a hole, and dropped neatly in. She looked back at him innocently.

Cederic flushed. "Yes, just like that," he muttered.

Several of the other tweens laughed. "Can I have a lesson too, Ced?" one asked.

"I'd rather have one from Hyacinth," smirked another.

Even Frodo couldn't help smiling, but his mood quickly soured again when he spotted Coronel, who was entertaining the faunts with sleight-of-hand tricks while awaiting his turn to bowl. Merry sat on his knee and watched in fascination as he took a coin from his pocket and held it up for all to see before making it vanish with a snap of his fingers. Amid the astonished gasps of his audience, he reached down and seemed to pull it out of Merry's ear, then presented it to him. The youngster giggled with delight, and Coronel tousled his hair affectionately.

"Do it again, Cory!" Merry begged.

Frodo felt a stab of jealousy. Then he reminded himself that he had no right to feel thus, and if Merry was smitten with Coronel's charm he could scarcely blame him. Full of remorse as he recalled how he had neglected his little cousin all summer, he wondered how he could make it up to him—if it were not already too late. Finally he found he had no more heart for the game, and slipping away unnoticed, retreated to his room to seek the solace of poetry.

>>>

"But this won't do at all!" Coronel eyed the sheet of parchment he held with distaste as he and Frodo stood once again in the orchard.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Frodo defensively.

By way of answer, Coronel began to read aloud:

_Bid me to live, and I will live  
Thy servant e'er to be;  
Or bid me love, and I will give  
A loving heart to thee._

_Bid me to weep, and I will weep,  
While I have eyes to see;  
And, having none, yet I will keep  
A heart to weep for thee._

_Bid me despair and I'll despair,  
Under that willow-tree;  
Or bid me die, and I will dare  
E'en death, to die for thee._

When he had finished Coronel looked up with a petulant frown and complained, "I can't give this to Hyacinth! All that rot about death and despair—it's much too gloomy and depressing!"

At these words Frodo grew very still. "But _you're_ not giving it to her, Coronel," he said quietly, but a note of defiance had crept into his voice. "_I_ am. You're just delivering it, remember?" Never before had he spoken so to his cousin.

Coronel appeared momentarily taken aback, but recovered swiftly. "Yes yes," he snapped, "you know what I meant! My point is, after all this time I think I'm rather a good judge of what Hyacinth will or won't like, and I tell you she won't fancy this at all!"

"Why don't we let her decide for herself?" Frodo persisted.

"No! I won't give it to her, I tell you, and I don't have time to stand here jawing about it any longer—I'm due to meet Hyacinth in the rose garden shortly."

"But—if you don't give her the poem, what will you tell her?" asked Frodo, his new-found resolve starting to waver.

Coronel shot him an infuriating smile. "That's easy…I'll tell her Prince Udo was not inclined to write a poem for her today!"

"_What_?" gasped Frodo. "You can't do that! I've said no such thing!"

"Ah, but I can," replied Coronel smugly. "That's the beauty of being the messenger, you know."

"Not anymore, you're not!" cried Frodo, snatching the parchment from his hands. "Thank you for all you've done, Coronel, but as of this moment your messenger services are no longer required!"

Coronel just shrugged. "As you wish, little master," he said derisively, and sauntered away.

Frodo stared after him with mingled relief and dismay. The weeks of simmering tension between them had made this falling-out not entirely unlooked for, but in the event, the swiftness and finality of the break had left him feeling suddenly bereft of purpose—and companionship. For so long his days had been devoted to writing poems for Hyacinth, then listening to Coronel's pleasantly engrossing accounts of her reaction to them. And now it was over…

He looked down at the poem in his hands and imagined Coronel blithely telling Hyacinth of Udo's disinterest. A sense of looming disaster swept over him, and the thought that he had, perhaps, brought it on himself only made it worse.

Slowly he began walking back to the Hall, consumed with frustration and desperately wondering what to do next. As he approached the front steps a friendly voice hailed him from behind, and he turned to find Horatio coming up the path.

"Hullo Frodo!" he said cheerfully when he'd caught up to him. Seeing his distraught expression he added with concern, "What's the matter?"

"It's too difficult to explain," sighed Frodo.

"All right then…but let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Frodo stopped, struck by his words. "Maybe you _can_ help, Horatio…have you seen your sister lately?"

"I believe she's in her room getting ready to go out," he replied. "At least, that's what she was doing when I left the smial a short while ago, and knowing how long she primps and fusses, I daresay she's still at it."

Frodo was silent a moment, deliberating, then drew a deep breath and said, "Can you give her this and tell her that Prince Udo urgently wishes to speak with her before she leaves?" He handed him the poem.

Horatio looked down at the sheet and then back up at Frodo, puzzled. "But I just saw Coronel heading toward the garden!"

"What's that to do with it? I wish to speak with her _before_ she meets Coronel!"

After thinking about this a moment Horatio ventured cautiously, "D'you mean to say that _you _are Udo?"

Frodo stared at him, startled by the question. "Yes, of course!"

"Oh," said Horatio, looking more confused than ever.

"What is it?" said Frodo sharply, his suspicions ignited to a leaping blaze.

"Well, er, nothing, except…that is, I—I don't know quite how to say this," dithered Horatio.

"Just say it!" Frodo was now almost shouting at him.

But poor Horatio seemed unable to continue until Frodo seized him by his shirtfront, then said rapidly, "I saw Coronel and Hyacinth in the garden the other day, but they didn't see me. Cory gave Hy something written on a piece of parchment and after she read it, she—she put her arms around his neck and said, 'That was lovely! Thank you, my dearest Udo!'"

For a moment Frodo was unable to speak or move, as the magnitude of his folly became suddenly, sickeningly clear. Then he was seized by a paroxysm of fury. "I'll kill him!" he roared, and releasing Horatio he rushed off in the direction of the garden.

>>>

Coronel was leaning against a rose trellis, humming softly. On hearing someone approach, he glanced up with an expectant smile that quickly changed to an almost comical look of surprise when he saw it was Frodo. The expression on his cousin's face told him instantly that the game was up. "Frodo, I'm sorry—" he began.

"Not nearly as sorry as you're going to be!" Frodo snarled. He charged up to Coronel and shoved him in the chest, causing him to stagger backwards a step or two. "Get your fists up, you lying, cheating snake!"

"I don't want to fight you," Coronel protested.

"I don't see that you have much choice!" said Frodo grimly, and shoved him again, harder. This time Coronel stumbled and nearly fell. "You'd better defend yourself, or I swear I'll strike you as you stand!"

Coronel tried one last time. "Frodo—can't we talk this over, cousin to cousin? I can explain…"

"_Talk_? I have no more use for words!" Frodo was screaming at him now. "They've caused me nothing but grief!" He was beside himself with misery and rage, and drew a shaking arm across his eyes to clear away the mist that clouded them.

Coronel, always one to seize an opportunity when it presented itself, did so now. Without warning he punched Frodo sharply in the stomach then, as the younger hobbit doubled over, gasping for breath, delivered a vicious upper cut to his chin, snapping his head back with such force that he was thrown off his feet.

As he lay writhing on the ground Coronel looked down at him and sighed. "I didn't want to have to do that," he said. Then he turned to walk away…but before he had gone more than a few paces he was stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder and a rasping voice in his ear.

_"Coronel!"_

He spun around in disbelief, just in time to meet Frodo's fist as it smashed into his nose.

While Frodo was a veteran of countless fights with hobbits his own age or close to it, he had never faced an adversary like Coronel Took. Not only was he an adult in all but name, with close to twenty pounds and a slight height advantage over Frodo, but he was also a seasoned—and ruthless—combatant. His rules of engagement were simple—win at any cost, and honor be hanged.

Thus Frodo was more overmatched than he knew, but he had the force of righteous anger on his side, and that was no small thing. He fought with a savage ferocity that his opponent was clearly unprepared for, and after enduring a hail of punishing blows to his head and torso Coronel decided new tactics were called for. Moving in close to his attacker, he hooked a leg around one of Frodo's and brought him down. Frodo hit the ground hard, getting the wind knocked out of him once again.

When Hyacinth arrived moments later, Horatio trailing several paces behind, the rivals were rolling on the ground locked together. She rushed forward. "Coronel! Frodo! Stop it! Stop it at once, do you hear?" They froze, then slowly turned their heads to stare up at her. "How dare you!" Hyacinth shouted, her eyes blazing. "I'm not a bone for you to fight over like two curs!"

Shamefaced, the two hobbits climbed slowly to their feet. Hyacinth looked accusingly from one to the other. "I have nothing to say to either of you deceitful creatures!" she snapped, then proceeded to say quite a few things for the next several minutes.

While she talked Frodo stared at the ground, devastated. Hyacinth clearly believed he was a party to Coronel's treachery! This thought pained him more than any of his injuries.

Finally, the tortuous ordeal ended with Hyacinth storming off in tears. Horatio gave them a helpless, bewildered look before following slowly her in wake. Frodo and Coronel were left standing on the path, staring speechlessly at each other. Blood was still streaming from Coronel's nose, staining the front of his shirt scarlet, and a large bruise was already forming below one eye. Frodo could feel blood trickling down his own face from a cut on his brow, and his swollen jaw throbbed with pain. It was Coronel who lowered his eyes first. Without a word Frodo turned his back on him and walked away.

* * *

_Next week  
_Chapter Nine: Useless Words 

**_Author's notes:_**

Frodo's "dark poem" is adapted from "To Anthea, Who May Command Him Anything" by Robert Herrick.

Bumblepuppy is an old game in which nine holes were made in the ground, into which a ball was bowled. It sounds so hobbity, I just had to put it in the story! I couldn't find any details on the rules, but figure it might have featured elements of croquet, lawn bowling, and pool.

**_Responses to reviews:_**

**Permilea **– Yes, Rory and Frodo have more in common than either of them will admit to…and Maggot is shrewd enough to recognize an honorable thief when he sees one.

You probably understand Coronel a bit better at this point, but to answer your question, by Chapter 7 Coronel was doing so well with Hyacinth that he no longer needed Frodo's poems; moreover he had just enough of a conscience that he was feeling a wee bit uncomfortable around Frodo. So in order to get out of his messenger role in the face of Frodo's protests, he set a condition he thought Frodo would refuse: stealing the mushrooms.

**Endymion** – While it's true that a wrangler can mean one who quarrels, it usually means a cowboy…hence the jeans brand! Better might be adversaries or combatants, but those don't seem quite right either. Squabblers? Hmmm, what's the word in German for "two stubborn old geezers trying to mix it up like young bucks"? 

The Milne Ice Shelf, eh? Probably an explorer, but wouldn't it be great if there were icebergs around it named Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, etc.?


	9. Useless Words

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling _

**Chapter Nine: Useless Words**

Frodo slipped in a back door of Brandy Hall as quietly as possible. He felt physically and emotionally drained, and his only thought was to reach the solitude of his room undetected. But a horrified voice dashed his hopes immediately.

"Frodo!" cried Esmeralda, rushing up to him. "Good gracious—what's happened to you?"

"Nothing, Aunt Ezzie, I'm fine," Frodo muttered, not meeting her eye.

"Don't 'nothing' me, lad, I'm not blind! You're hurt…you've been fighting again, haven't you?" Taking him by the chin, she turned his face toward her to get a better look. "Oh, your poor jaw! Let me—"

"Leave me alone, can't you?" said Frodo harshly, shaking her off and turning abruptly away.

Esmeralda stood there, stricken.

After a moment Frodo stopped too, and slowly came back to her side. "I'm sorry, Auntie," he said gently, reaching down to stroke her cheek—he was now much taller than she. "I just need to be by myself right now."

Esmeralda took a deep breath and brushed impatiently at an errant tear. "That's all right, dear. I _will_ keep treating you like a faunt, when you're all but grown up now." She smiled a bit wistfully. "At least Merry still lets me baby him, though for how much longer I daren't guess…that one's got an independent streak as wide as the Brandywine!" She sighed. "Well, be off with you then. Just promise me you'll see to that cut…or better yet, have Feralia look at it."

>>>

Frodo stood in the center of his room, swaying a little, and struggled to collect his thoughts. He swiped his arm across his forehead, then stared down at the bloodstained sleeve as if at something foreign and unconnected to him. He was dimly aware of an envelope lying on his bed, addressed to him in Bilbo's thin, straggling hand, but for once this discovery brought him no delight. Picking up the letter and tossing it aside, he sank down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. The bleeding seemed to be slowing, at least.

Finally, more from force of habit than anything else, he reached down to pull his wooden box out from under the bed. As he fumbled with the clasp he noticed for the first time that his hands were shaking. Lifting the lid he stared down at the sheet of parchment lying on top: an unfinished poem for Hyacinth.

_The wondrous moment of our meeting . . .  
I well remember you appear  
Before me like a vision fleeting,_

His anger came rushing back as quickly as if it had never gone…_I have no more use for words!_ He tore up the sheet and threw it into the fire grate. At this time of year there was no fire, of course, and as he stared at the scraps lying amid the dust and cobwebs, he knew with a bleak certainty that never again would he write poetry for Hyacinth—Coronel had robbed him of all joy in that pursuit. Yet he felt the loss as of something precious to him, and his soul cried out still in its need for expression.

Briefly he considered his journal, but what would he write—that he had been an utter fool, a naive dupe, an unwitting pawn in Coronel's scheming game? True though it might be, he could not bear the thought of admitting it in writing.

He looked back down at the box, still sitting open before him as if waiting expectantly. And then he remembered—with the guilty start of one who has suddenly recalled an old, dear, but neglected friend—that it yet held something that belonged to him alone, unbeknownst to and unspoiled by Coronel.

Long before he had composed poems, or kept a journal, he had found comfort in a form of expression that needed no words…was even, perhaps, better than words. He rummaged among the contents of the box until he found what he sought: a heavy sheet of drawing paper, some fine-tipped pen nibs made especially for sketching, and a fresh pot of ink. He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw once more the face of his beloved. Then, fitting nib to holder, he dipped his pen and began to draw.

As he worked he became completely absorbed, the day's painful memories receding—for a time, at least. Afternoon drew on to evening and shadows crept across the room but still Frodo drew, stopping only long enough to light his bedside lamp then returning eagerly to his task.

Finally it was finished. Frodo set down his pen and regarded the portrait approvingly: it was a good likeness, very good. Hyacinth gazed back at him from the page, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes bright and laughing, lips curved up in a saucy smile, hair pinned back with a spray of roses as at the ball. The sight was strangely comforting, as if the mood of the pen-and-ink Hyacinth could somehow influence the real one, and for the first time since the fight he began to feel a small stirring of hope. Perhaps he still had something to offer Hyacinth after all, something that would make amends for the disastrous events of the afternoon, or at least soften her wrath enough to give him a chance to explain…

His reverie was broken by the sound of a high-pitched, eager voice in the hall, fast approaching his room. "Frodo? Frodo!"

Frodo groaned. _Not now, Merry…_

Merry burst in, shouting happily, "There you are, Frodo! Why didn't you come to dinner?"

"I wasn't hungry," muttered Frodo, not looking at him.

"Gran'dad wanted to fetch you, but Mummy wouldn't let him," continued Merry. He examined his cousin's face with interest. "You've been in a fight, haven't you?"

"Never mind that! Isn't it your bedtime, Merry?"

"Yes, but I missed you." Now he noticed the drawing. "Oh, who's that? Is that Hyacinth? I saw you dance with her at the ball…you like her, don't you?" He jumped onto the bed for a closer look—and in the process knocked over the inkbottle. A pool of dark liquid instantly flooded over the portrait.

What little self-control remaining to Frodo suddenly snapped, and he turned on Merry in wild fury. "Look what you've done! That was for Hyacinth, and now you've ruined it—you've ruined everything!" he shouted. "Well now you can just clear out! Go on, get out of my room!"

Merry flinched as if Frodo had struck him. He stared up at him, unmoving, until Frodo screamed again, "Get out!" Then he turned and fled.

Frodo seized the inkpot and hurled it at the wall with an oath. It shattered and left an ugly stain like a large, misshapen spider. Then he threw himself on the bed, his body wracked by violent, heaving sobs.

* * *

_Next week  
_Chapter Ten: Change Partners 

**_Poetry note:_**

Frodo's unfinished poem is an excerpt from "Wondrous Moment"by Alexander Pushkin.

**_Response to reviewers:_**

**Endymion** – I must say you are keeping me on my toes with your grammar questions, LOL! That's OK, it's good for me. Conditional verb forms are something I know how to use, but not explain. A site with a pretty good explanation is:

Webster dot commnet dot edu slash grammar slash verbs (I hope my attempt to disguise the link worked; it kept disappearing when I tried it the normal way)

Streithammel, eh? I like the sound of that!  
As always, thanks for your review!


	10. Change Partners

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair **

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Ten: Change Partners**

At breakfast the next morning tension charged the air like an approaching storm. Hyacinth, her face very pale save for two small spots of color on her cheeks, sat toying with her food and ignoring all solicitous inquiries from her admirers.

Frodo did not even make a pretence of eating, but only stared down at his plate.

Esmeralda started to chide him, then thought better of it.

Merry sat kicking the leg of his chair and very pointedly not looking at Frodo. After spilling his second cup of milk and pulling his cousin Berry's hair, he was unceremoniously hauled out of the room by Saradoc, struggling and squalling.

Only Coronel seemed reasonably cheerful, or at least put up a good front despite his black eye. But his banter with the lasses seemed a bit distracted, and he ate quickly and left while the others were still at table.

"What's wrong with everyone this morning?" grumbled Rory. "The weather must be changing!" Shrugging, he turned back to Hamilcar to resume their discussion of pipeweed prices in Bree when suddenly, struck by the significance of his own words, he broke off and hurried outside for a sniff of the air and a tour of the pipeweed fields.

Hyacinth rose to leave.

Hortensia looked at her with concern. "Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"Yes mother," she replied tersely.

As she passed Frodo's chair something fluttered into his lap. He waited until she had gone out, then surreptitiously looked down and saw it was a note. Hyacinth, writing to _him_! He hurried back to his room, and unfolded it with trembling hands. As he did so a faint scent of lavender wafted up from the sheet. Her writing was just what he'd imagined, elegant and feminine, though her words were strictly no-nonsense.

_Frodo,  
__I must speak with you. Meet me in the rose garden, by the sundial, in half an hour.  
__Hyacinth  
__p.s. – Wait outside the gate until you see Coronel leave.  
__H._

This brief message was enough to unnerve Frodo completely. Half an hour! Should he change his clothes? No, he didn't want to risk being late. He glanced anxiously in the mirror; his hair looked as disheveled as usual. He ran his fingers through it, which only made it worse. With a frustrated groan, he gave it up and ran out the door.

The next twenty minutes seemed endless. The garden was in riotous bloom—not only roses but nasturtians, delphiniums, and sunflowers as well—but Frodo took no pleasure in them this morning. He paced just outside the gate, agonizing over what he imagined Hyacinth would say to him. What a boorish lout she must think him, unable to resolve his problems in any other way than with his fists…

However to convince her that he, too, had been tricked by Coronel…unaware that his cousin was brazenly passing the poems off as his own? How could he plead innocence when he had assumed a false identity and enlisted another to carry out what he had not the courage to do himself? He had to allow that the evidence was against him.

Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path and dove behind a bush. Here came Coronel, hands jammed in his pockets and a look of utter dejection on his face. _If he were a dog he'd have his tail between his legs_, thought Frodo with grim satisfaction. Then with a sudden sinking feeling he wondered what he himself would look like a short while hence. For a moment his courage deserted him and he considered fleeing. Then he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst, and opened the garden gate.

>>>

Sitting on a mossy stone bench by the sundial, Hyacinth was growing impatient. Had Frodo lost his nerve?

At the slight creak of a hinge, she looked up. Frodo was standing just inside the gate, looking for all the world like an awkward, skittish colt, ready to bolt at any moment. Hyacinth decided a matter-of-fact tone was called for.

"Ah, there you are, Frodo, won't you sit down."

Obediently Frodo slid onto the nearest bench.

"No, you silly, over here by me!"

Blushing furiously, Frodo rose again and started toward her, only to veer off suddenly into some shrubbery.

"The little goose! Where is he off to now?"

Frodo reemerged from the flowerbeds and finally arrived at her side, offering a sprig of white flowers and a shy smile. The flowers were hyacinths.

"Oh Frodo—how sweet of you! They're lovely."

For the first time Frodo met her eyes. She smiled at him and he felt as if his heart would burst.

"Here, be a dear and fasten it in my hair for me, won't you? Just tuck it behind that ribbon."

Hardly daring to breathe, Frodo leaned in to carry out Hyacinth's request, his face only inches from hers. It was the closest he'd ever been to her, closer than when they had danced, closer even than on that first day when he'd caught her by the arm. So close that the delicate scent of the flowers enveloped him as he carefully secured them just above her ear. So close that his hand brushed against her hair, and it was even softer than in his dream… His head began to swim with intoxicating, unfamiliar sensations.

"Well? How does it look?" she asked, cocking her head charmingly—at just the angle he had sketched—and bestowing another smile upon him.

It was the first thing she'd said so far that actually required an answer, and Frodo realized with a jolt of panic that he was going to have to find his voice and somehow manage to speak. "Beautiful," he whispered at last. "More beautiful than words could ever tell!"

Hyacinth looked a bit startled, as if unprepared for the raw intensity of his reply. "Frodo," she began, but now that his tongue was loosed, the torrent of words was not so quickly stopped.

"Hyacinth, about yesterday—I'm so sorry! You always seem to catch me fighting, please forgive—"

One gentle finger pressed to his lips was enough to strike him dumb again. "Hush, Frodo! Now that I've dragged the story out of Coronel I don't blame _you_; in fact I'd say your actions were more than justified. I just…" she paused, choosing her words carefully. "I just wanted to stop it before you hurt him too badly." She was pleased to see the hoped-for response: a slight but unmistakable look of pride that crept over his face. He drew himself up a little straighter. "But Frodo"—she touched his hand, and he trembled at the touch—"What I wish to do now is thank you properly for your lovely poems. The one you gave to Horrie yesterday quite took my breath away."

On hearing this Frodo couldn't help but feel a certain measure of vindication, but it quickly vanished at her next words.

"And yet, it troubled me as well. To write of death so, of a willingness to die for my sake… I don't know how I could possibly have earned such devotion. In fact I feel quite unworthy!"

"Unworthy—never!" exclaimed Frodo, gazing at her with heart-wrenching faith.

"Ah, my dear," she said, smiling a little sadly. "Please don't make of me something that I'm not. I'm afraid I shall disappoint you."

"You can do no wrong in my eyes, Princess, and never shall!" Frodo protested.

"What I _shall_ do remains to be seen, but right now there is still the matter of thanking you."

"But you don't—that is, just to sit by your side and hear your voice is all the thanks I need," stammered Frodo.

"I daresay, but I had something more…direct in mind."

After fastening the flowers, Frodo had retreated a safe distance along the bench.

She now eyed him seductively from under her long lashes. "Come Frodo, you needn't look so frightened, I'm not going to bite! At least," she added with a wicked smile, "not yet."

Already nervous, Frodo now broke out in a cold sweat. _What did she mean, not yet?_

Hyacinth had sidled down the bench toward him as she spoke and was once again so close that the heady fragrance of the flowers made Frodo's senses reel. "You have such nice hair," she murmured, running her fingers through his wayward curls. "And such lovely eyes," she continued, holding his gaze with her own. "And oh, those lips!" She lightly traced them with a fingertip.

Even as Frodo felt himself slipping over the edge of blissful oblivion, a last vestige of rational thought surfaced: _Shouldn't I be saying such things to **her**?_ He opened his mouth to try but before he could get a word out, soft lips had captured his in a tender yet determined kiss…

For a moment out of time Frodo sat transfixed by her touch, unable to move or even breathe. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers tangling themselves in her silky hair, and pulled her closer. He was returning her kiss now—gently at first, but growing ever more insistent with the stirrings of desire. Hyacinth gave an eager little moan against his mouth.

As if in answer, a strident female voice rang out, accompanied by frenetic yipping, which made Frodo jump as suddenly as if Hyacinth had bitten him after all. "Hyacinth? Where are you, Coronel said you wanted to…_Oh!_"

Fluffy dashed up, then ran excitedly back and forth between her rapidly approaching mistress and the startled tweens. Too late, they pulled away from each other.

"Hyacinth Hornblower!" shrieked Hortensia. "WHAT in the Four Farthings is going on here, young lady? And who is that rascal with you…_not Dodo_!"

"His name is Frodo, mother," said Hyacinth with as much dignity as she could muster, trying to smooth her disarrayed hair.

"Don't change the subject, missy!" retorted Hortensia. "Frodo, Dodo, what does it matter…the real question is, just what do the two of you think you're playing at?"

"We're not playing! We were just having a serious—"

"Sneaking out without a chaperone again!" railed Hortensia, without heeding her daughter's attempted reply. "And in this queer, uncivilized land, where any sort of unscrupulous rogues could be lurking about waiting to prey on weak, defenseless young lasses like you! Whatever will your father say? Surely you've not forgotten his threat to lock you in your room until you come of age, if you continue to show such flagrant disregard for your family's good name and your own reputation?"

"And as for _you_!" she continued, turning her wrath now on Frodo. "I thought you showed a sense of propriety at the ball, but now I see you're no better than the rest…" She broke off abruptly as she marked his somewhat glazed expression. "Oh, why am I wasting my breath—you haven't heard a word I've said, have you!" she snapped. It was as well that she did not seem to expect Frodo to reply, as he could not have spoken at that moment if his life depended on it. "Come along, Hyacinth."

She whirled about and marched off, dragging her daughter behind her. "But just wait until the Master hears about _this_!" she called over her shoulder as a parting shot. Hyacinth turned and managed to give Frodo a wink and a sultry smile.

After they had gone Frodo sat there still, suffused with a delicious, tingling warmth and a sense of astonished rapture. He could not even find it within himself to be angry with Coronel, who had clearly intended for Hortensia to discover him alone with her daughter.

Slowly he arose from the bench and, half in a daze, began to wander through garden and orchard…for how long or how far he could not have said. He had no thought or care for his surroundings nor for what would happen next, knowing only that he must preserve this precious moment, must keep it jealously to himself, for as long as possible. But finally his reproachful stomach—he had eaten nothing since midday prior—demanded that he turn back.

>>>

Try as he might, Frodo could not afterwards recall in any detail what he had felt when kissing Hyacinth. All he knew was that, for a little while, he had been happy.

* * *

_Next week:  
_Chapter Eleven: The Letter 

_**Author's note:**_

Re: "nasturtians," that's how Tolkien spells it, and he's quite insistent on it.

_**Responses to reviews:**_

**Endymion** – By George, you've got it! And I wish you WERE a writer…and that I read German! I'm sure you'd be great:)  
Tired or not, you thought of something I hadn't: the ink spilling over the portrait as a symbol of Hyacinth's unworthiness…I love it! And, of course, it's true. Because NO ONE is worthy of our Frodo!  
Thanks as always…

**Permilea** – That's always the way of it…when we're angry and hurting, the ones dearest to us suffer the consequences. This was a painful chapter to write!  
Thanks again.


	11. The Letter

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair **

_by Inkling _

**Chapter Eleven: The Letter **

The possibility of keeping one's actions private and unremarked-upon at Brandy Hall was so remote that any attempt to do so would have been deemed a fool's effort by its residents. By the time Frodo returned to the Hall, his indiscretion with Hyacinth had already been discussed at length thrice over. Despite the scandalized clucking of his aunts, the prevailing opinion was that the tweens' behavior need not be taken too seriously, due to Frodo's tender age—as he was thoroughly offended to learn.

He was in the kitchen wolfing down a bowl of mutton stew that Elsie had dispensed along with a laconic "So, worked up an appetite, have we?" when a maidservant came in to announce smirkingly, "The Master wants to see you in his chambers right away!"

Frodo sighed. His uncle never tarried in calling him to account.

>>>

Frodo entered the Master's small private study to find both Rory and Sara awaiting him, looking very serious but not, he noted with relief, angry. He went to stand before them, as was usual for his dressing-downs, but surprisingly Rory said, "Have a seat, lad," motioning him to an empty chair.

He decided the best approach was a confident one. "If this is to be the talk about where baby birds come from…I already know," he said with studied nonchalance.

"I daresay you do," Rory snorted, "from the way I hear you were carrying on this morning. Let's just hope you know as much about how to keep those baby birds in their shells!"

Frodo's worldly air vanished in a flash as his face went crimson to the roots of his hair.

Saradoc cleared his throat loudly and nudged his father in the ribs.

"All right, all right," grunted Rory. "I'm getting to it!" He turned back to Frodo. "As it happens, that's not why we called you in here…since there's plainly nothing we could tell you on that subject anyway," he added, unable to resist one last dig.

"Yesterday," he continued, "I received a letter from Cousin Bilbo…Sara?" On cue, his son produced a folded-up document from his waistcoat pocket. "Tell Frodo what it says."

Glancing down at the missive to refresh his memory, Sara recounted, "Well, after extending his fond greetings to the family and his sincere wishes that all is well at Brandy Hall, he writes of the high regard he has for Father and Mother, and for Ezzie and me, and for you, and of what a fine job he thinks we've done of raising you over the years, and what a fine upstanding young hobbit you're becoming, and how impressed he was with you on your last visit to Hobbiton, and—"

"Yes yes," cut in Rory impatiently, as Frodo listened in bewilderment. "He goes on like that for quite a while, but the long and short of it is, lad, that Bilbo has made a formal proposal to adopt you. Do you know what that means, Frodo? Not just to make you his legal ward…but to make you his heir!"

Frodo stared at them, dumbfounded. "Why would he want to do that?" he managed at last.

"I can think of plenty of reasons, lad, and most of 'em are named Sackville-Baggins. A hobbit gets to a certain point in his life, he starts thinking about his legacy and such. And despite all appearances to the contrary, there's no denying old Bilbo's passed that point and then some!"

Frodo had not the slightest idea of what Rory was talking about. He appealed to Saradoc. "But Uncle Sara, I thought _you_ adopted me when…" He swallowed hard, then tried again. "When my…" _Why was it still so hard to say it?_

"Not exactly, Frodo," said Saradoc gently. "I became your guardian, responsible for your care and well being." He paused, looking rather embarrassed—Sara never found it easy to speak of his feelings—then continued with an effort, "My dear boy, I truly do care for you like a son. But I could never offer you what Bilbo can. All of my properties and possessions will pass to Merry—as they must, since he is successor to the title of Master."

Frodo was still trying to take it all in. "Do—do you mean that Uncle Bilbo wants me to live with him?"

"Confound it Frodo," burst out Rory. "What do you think we've been talking about all this time? And why do you look so flabbergasted, anyhow? Bilbo said he explained everything in his letter to you!"

"His letter…" repeated Frodo blankly.

"Yes," Sara said with some surprise. "Bilbo said he was writing to you separately, surely you must have received his letter by now? This one came yesterday afternoon."

Suddenly Frodo remembered the letter lying on his bed when he'd come in after the fight…the letter he'd tossed aside and promptly forgotten.

When he did not reply, Rory pushed on relentlessly. "Well, letter or no letter, the fact of the matter is that aye, Bilbo Baggins is asking you to go and live with him in Hobbiton. And now what do you say to that, eh?"

"But…Brandy Hall is my home!" A note of panic was creeping into Frodo's voice.

"Of course it is, lad," Sara reassured him, "and we hope you'll always think of it that way. But now Bilbo's invited you to make Bag End your new home! Isn't that wonderful?"

Was it? Frodo was silent as a jumble of brief but vivid images flashed through his mind.

_His home…The Buck Hill shrouded in drifting fog on an early spring morning, mysterious and majestic. The warm glow of Brandy Hall at dusk, the light from its many windows dancing in the rippling water below. Fishing with his father on the banks of the Brandywine, and the proud thrill of his first catch. Lazy summer afternoons swimming with his mother in the placid River—and the raging, deadly fury of that same River as it taunted him one dark November day. The peace and solitude of his parent's graveside. Serious, kindly Saradoc, always trying to shield him from Rory's wrath and, less successfully, to discipline him. Dear Ezzie, knowing she could never replace his mother but gamely trying nonetheless. Merry's small, frightened face at his bedside, then the creak of the mattress and the rustle of the bedclothes as he crept in to snuggle up to his cousin. And, further back, furthest of all, the sound of a beloved voice and the touch of a gentle hand that put his own night terrors to rest. For most of his life and memory, this had been home._

And now he recalled another talk with Sara long ago…a talk that left him feeling there was no place he belonged, and no one in his life that he could rely upon except himself. All the doubts and fears of a lost, angry fifteen-year-old came rushing back. "No!" he blurted out. "It isn't wonderful, and I won't go, I tell you!"

Rory's patience, never his strong suit, suddenly gave way. "Can't you see you'd be better off there, you stubborn whelp!" he snapped.

Dead silence followed these words. A look of pain flickered across Frodo's face, then was as quickly gone again. Rising from his chair he looked down at his uncle, eyes smoldering. "Yes, I can see all right," he said bitterly. "I can see that you've wanted to be rid of me ever since my parents died. And now at last you have your chance!"

Rory climbed slowly to his feet and Sara instinctively started to move between them, but there was no need. After staring at his nephew with a peculiar expression Frodo did not recognize, Rory abruptly turned and left, banging the door behind him.

"Frodo," said Sara quietly after he'd gone. "You're wrong about Father…you know that, don't you?"

"I don't know anything!" retorted Frodo, but he felt secretly ashamed of himself.

Sara sighed. "Let me try to explain this one more time. We were as surprised as you by Bilbo's offer, and at first I was inclined to regard it as a mere whim, the passing fancy of an eccentric old hobbit, if you'll forgive my saying so. But adoption is not something one proposes lightly, or without long and careful deliberation. It is a very complex legal proceeding requiring lengthy documents, multiple witnesses…and as Bilbo is head of his family, this will have implications for the entire Baggins clan. Rory's right, the Sackville-Bagginses will be furious!"

The thought of causing such a stir made Frodo cringe. "Uncle Sara, you know that Bilbo's very dear to me, but…I'm happy with things as they are—living here, and visiting there. Why should any of that have to change?"

Saradoc smiled a little at his plaintive question. "It's the way of things to change, lad, whether we wish it or not. But this change would be much to your benefit. As I said before, Bilbo can give you advantages we never could…wealth, property, a position in society. Don't you see? As his heir—with all the titles, rights and privileges of such—you would be very rich someday…and you would be Master of Bag End!"

"What do I care for that?" shrugged Frodo.

"You may not now lad, but one day you'll be thinking of marrying and starting a family. Your parents didn't have much to leave you, and as an orphan with no prospects, what could you could offer a lass?" Sara said gently.

Frodo made no reply; his cousin's words had hit an unexpected mark.

After a pause Sara went on, "Well, I can see you have much to think about, so take all the time you need. No one is going to force this on you, Frodo. You're old enough to make your own decisions now."

"Yes sir," Frodo said in a subdued voice, suddenly feeling very young indeed.

>>>

Frodo walked slowly back to his room, Sara's words still echoing in his mind. _An orphan with no prospects…_ He had never thought of it that way, but now he saw himself through the eyes of Hyacinth's parents: a hobbit of so little consequence that Mrs. Hornblower could not be troubled to get his name right. Someone who would never be considered worthy of their daughter…at best a nobody and at worst a fortune hunter. But as Master of Bag End, they would have to take him seriously: a suitor to be reckoned with….a _desirable match_.

All this he quickly perceived—and just as quickly rejected. That he should choose to accept Bilbo's generous offer for personal gain…that he should seek the Hornblowers' approval on the strength of his title and possessions, not his character…the very idea repulsed him. And that Hyacinth herself could be swayed by such vulgar enticements—it was impossible, unthinkable!

If Hyacinth loved him as he did her—and surely she must, for she had kissed him!—then his wealth or the lack thereof would matter not a whit. She would stand up to her parents when the time came. But that time, when he was of age to propose marriage, was still so unbearably far off…

He found the letter lying on the chair by his bed, where he had tossed it the day before. Bilbo's letters were never brief, but this one was even longer than usual: several pages filled with his cramped, spidery script. With some trepidation he began to read.

_30 Wedmath_

_My dear Frodo,_

_I hope this letter finds you as well as when I saw you last …it seems but a short while ago that we sat at breakfast together, discussing plans for our birthday…and yet now that occasion is nearly upon us!_

_I know you thought me in jest at the time but, my dear boy, I assure you I have never been more serious in my life than when I asked you to come and live with me_._ Perhaps I sprang it on you too suddenly, but the idea had been forming in my mind for many months. _

_I have written to Rory and Sara as well, and undoubtedly they will recount to you—if they have not already done so—all the sound, practical reasons behind this proposal: that, seeing as I have no family of my own, it seemed desirable to name my own heir rather than see my beloved Bag End, and all the rest of my estate, pass into the hands of relations for whom I bear little love or respect. That, seeing as you were left by tragic circumstances without independent means, the arrangement would confer considerable benefit upon you as well. That, given my highly favorable opinion of your intellect and strength of character, you would make an excellent Master of Bag End and head of the Baggins family when the time comes._

_I have every confidence that these arguments will persuade the goodhearted, sensible Brandybucks that letting you go is in your best interests, and so they will not oppose me in this—or hinder you, should you accept my offer. _

_However, dear lad, knowing you as well as I do, I am equally certain that these same arguments will make scant impression on you, for you are neither grasping nor greedy and care little for material wealth, being, like me, more interested in riches of the mind and imagination. But there are other reasons for this invitation, Frodo…reasons that do not appear in my letter to your kin. I hesitate to burden you with them; indeed I find it difficult to write of them at all, yet I would be remiss if I did not endeavor to do so—for it is only fair that you should know all before you make your decision._

_As you know, I have lived alone here at Bag End for many years, ever since the death of my mother when I was just in my forties. Fate did not bring me to marriage or a family of my own, and I have had no great regret for this, for my path led elsewhere. Although it is unusual among hobbits, and has prompted much gossip and ridicule among the worthy locals, I have quite enjoyed my solitary life…being able to do just as I please, enjoying the company of guests when I choose, but always being just as glad when their visits end and I can get back to my comfortable bachelor life._

_But of late I have begun to think that perhaps I've been alone too long. A feeling of dread and foreboding often troubles me by day, and my sleep is haunted by strange visions and dark dreams._

_And here is the strangest part of all: figuring large in all of this is my magic ring. Sometimes I feel that it is like an eye, always watching me—even when hidden in my pocket. I find myself thinking on it overmuch, and sometimes these thoughts have frightened me. The last time Otho and Lobelia paid me an unwelcome visit I longed, as always, to put on the ring and elude them. But this time it didn't stop there. I found myself wanting to play cruel tricks on them while invisible…to remove the spoons that I'd seen Lobelia slip into her bag and enjoy the look on her face as they rose mysteriously into the air! But I imagined doing more terrible things too…I wanted to strike that miserable Otho, to push him down the front steps of Bag End and watch him grovel in terror as I laughed unseen. And there were other, worse fantasies, but I can't bring myself to write of them. I don't know what possessed me to think such evil things, and it so frightened me that I became quite extraordinarily pleasant to the S-Bs for the remainder of their visit. But after they left I went to bed early and huddled shivering under my blankets, hiding from I know not what…myself, I suppose._

_That night I had the dream for the first time. In it, I held out my ring to you, as I did on your visit last spring. And this time I let you take it, and you set it on your finger. But I could still see you, and it seemed rather that I was the invisible one, yet you looked at me and laughed… Since then I have dreamt this often. _

_I have pondered all of these things and what they might mean, but so far they remain a riddle I cannot solve. I have tried locking the ring away, but find that only makes me think about it all the more, and in the end, I always relent and return it to my pocket. I have puzzled endlessly over the dreams, but have yet to make any sense of them._

_In the end, though no wiser, I am always left with the same longing: that you should come here to live with me. Perhaps I am afraid to be alone with my dreams and imaginings, with the dark and nameless terror that steals over me in the watches of the night. No doubt I sound quite mad to you, and I hope I haven't frightened you off. But please know that, should you decide not to accept my offer, I will understand completely, and will not think any less of you for it. _

_As I look back over this letter—and you must forgive a long-winded old hobbit for going on at such length—I see that in all my ramblings I have not yet managed to say the most important thing of all: It is not fear only, nor the whispers of dreams, that prompt me to ask this of you. For you see, Frodo, of all those who have stayed at Bag End over the years, you are the only one whom I have ever felt sorry to see go…the smial seemed very empty after your last visit! You have a quick wit and an intelligent, curious mind rarely seen among hobbits—who else has ever shown an interest in, much less an aptitude for, learning Elvish? While some of your younger cousins enjoy my tales—I believe young Meriadoc is ready to set off on an adventure of his own tomorrow!—none but you is able to grasp their true significance. _

_The fact of the matter is, I have become very fond of you, dear boy. You're growing up to be a fine young hobbit, and a credit to your parents…they would have been proud of you indeed. I see in you qualities that may not yet be apparent to most of those around you, or even to yourself. But I think you are destined for great things, Frodo Baggins, whatever path you should choose._

_Your devoted uncle,_

_Bilbo_

Frodo lowered the letter, feeling both deeply moved and greatly disturbed by what he had read. He did not understand most of it…the only thing about which he had no doubt was that his cousin was in some sort of trouble. The fact that Bilbo had not even tried to hide his desperation was especially alarming, coming from a hobbit who usually made light of problems. With a guilty start he recalled his concern over Bilbo's strange words and behavior on his last visit. But poetry and passion had quite driven it from his mind—until now.

He sighed and closed his eyes, letting another wave of memories wash over him.

_Bilbo's twinkling eyes and kindly face, as familiar and unchanging as Bag End itself, lit by the fire's dim, ruddy glow as he spun tales of magic and adventure deep into the night. The study filled with marvelous, exotic books, so unlike the dry tomes in Brandy Hall's library, and the luxury of all the time he wished to read them without being accused of "loafing about." Long, pleasant rambles through the Water-valley and the Green Hill Country, where he would sometimes sketch the idyllic landscape and Bilbo would recite poetry, either his own whimsical rhymes or enchanting Elvish verse. Quiet, thoughtful conversation with just one other, a rare experience at the boisterous Hall. _

The last image he saw was that of Bilbo's face when he'd tried to touch the ring.

_It's the way of things to change_…

Frodo felt torn in two. But Bilbo, it seemed, needed him. Could he honestly say the same of anyone at Brandy Hall? Only Merry, perhaps. But Merry had a large and doting family, whereas Bilbo had no one…

He suddenly realized that his decision was made.

>>>

Frodo found Saradoc sitting alone in his chambers, wreathed in a cloud of pipeweed smoke and sunk deep in thought. At Frodo's approach he lifted his head and looked searchingly into his cousin's face. "Well Frodo, what have you decided?"

Returning his gaze soberly, Frodo replied, "I will go to Hobbiton, and make my home with Uncle Bilbo." It seemed to him that his words hung heavily in the air between them, like the pipeweed smoke.

He knew with a sudden, piercing clarity that he was setting in motion a course of events from which there was no turning back, was leaving behind his familiar and predictable—if imperfect—world for a fate that he could not foresee. For a moment he shrank inwardly from this realization, but then his resolve stiffened. _Whatever path you should choose…_ He had set his feet on this path now, and would follow where it led.

Saradoc did not answer, but only took another draw on his pipe and sent a smoke ring drifting overhead.

Frodo, having expected the reassurance of his quick approval, looked at him anxiously. "Uncle Sara…?"

"I believe that you have chosen wisely, Frodo," said Saradoc at last, his eyes on the smoke ring as it slowly dissipated. "And yet…" He turned back to Frodo and smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. "It will be hard to see you go, lad. Hard for all of us, but for Merry in particular. I hate to think how he will take it…"

_Merry!_ Frodo had not seen his little cousin since breakfast, and the day's swiftly unfolding events had left no opportunity to seek him out and apologize for his harsh words of the night before. But with a sinking feeling, Frodo realized that what he must tell him now would hurt him far more… He was suddenly desperate to find Merry before he heard the news from someone else. "Where is Merry, Uncle?" 

"He was sent to his room for his deplorable behavior at breakfast this morning," replied Sara. "But you may go in to see him now if you wish."

Before Saradoc had finished speaking Frodo was hurrying down the short passage to the family's sleeping quarters. On reaching the nursery he rapped softly on the door, then cautiously opened it. "Merry dear," he began, but the words died on his lips. The room was empty.

>>>

Even with numerous relations and servants joining in the search, several hours later Merry still had not been found. Brandy Hall had countless hiding places for a small hobbit intent on evasion, and it was not known whether the faunt was still in the smial at all. Esmeralda was trying to hide her concern, saying it was just another of his pranks, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes…

Frodo was just leaving the Hall to search outside when he heard a voice that, even in the midst of his anxiety, made his heart sing with joy.

"Frodo!"

He spun about to see Hyacinth hastening toward him, and abruptly his delight was tempered with yet another worry. What would she think of his move to Hobbiton? As she reached his side he took a deep breath. "Hyacinth, there's something I must tell you…"

"All right, but first there's something I must _show_ you!" She held out a small scrap of drawing paper, a strange look on her face

Frodo stared down at it and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was a heavily smeared charcoal drawing, showing crude stick figures of two hobbits—a male and a female—facing each other and smiling. The male figure held out a bunch of flowers to the female, whose curly hair was long and dark. In an odd way it actually looked like Hyacinth. Scrawled across the bottom in ill-formed characters were the words:

_To my Deer Hiysinth with Love frum yer Frodo._

* * *

_Next week:  
_Chapter Twelve: Day of Reckoning 

**_Author's notes:_**

"And now he recalled another talk with Sara long ago…" refers to an incident in Chapter Two of my previous story, "The Terror of Buckland."

I've always wondered about Frodo's motivation for moving to Bag End. At his age I don't think the decision would have been forced on him, so in a sense it is the most important—and fateful—one he will make, as it sets in motion everything that happens to him afterwards. And yet I have not seen many fics exploring his feelings about this. Yes, there are some that depict him as very unhappy at Brandy Hall, in which case his motivation for leaving becomes pretty simple. But in this story, Frodo has a close, loving relationship with his guardians; moreover, the typical teen aversion to change is probably even more deeply ingrained in him due to the trauma of his parents' deaths. So I wanted to show Bilbo's offer as presenting him with a _real _decision…one in which he is truly "torn in two."

_**Response to Reviewers**_

**Endymion** – The one thing I will say in Hyacinth's defense is that she is, after all, eight years older than Frodo, and her needs and expectations are consequently very different from his. In fact, they're not really all that well suited for each other. Well, you know what they say: "Smart hobbits, foolish choices…"

So, if ever you were to write fanfic, it would be in English…good, I'll be eagerly awaiting it then!


	12. Day of Reckoning

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Twelve: Day of Reckoning**

The Brandy Hall Boys were loitering near the River-path, smoking pipeweed and shooting dice. At Frodo's approach all laughter and bickering instantly stilled, and the faces turned toward him were tense and wary. Yet there was also something approaching admiration in the expression of more than one youth; word of Frodo's exploits in the garden had reached their ears as well. Otis Sandheaver, sucking on a blade of grass, leered at him. "So, how was she, Baggins?"

"Shut up, Otis!" Frodo turned to the others. "Have any of you lot seen Merry?"

His query met with silence as the hobbits all looked to their leader to speak first. Otis spat out the grass. "Does we look like nursemaids?" he scoffed. "My lads are not so daft as you that way—we've no interest in faunts!"

"We only keeps track of the Brat if he's with you," added Clive Underhill, tossing a die from one hand to the other and wondering if a fight was in the offing.

"Maybe he fell in the River and _drownded_!" moaned another boy in mock distress. Several of his friends guffawed.

While in the past this would have been enough for Frodo to start swinging, now he merely glared at them and turned away. He had no time for these fools while Merry was missing. But as he started down the River-path he was stayed by a furtive tug on his sleeve.

It was little Bert Diggins. "He's down by the swimming hole," he muttered, glancing nervously back at Otis. "Leastways, I saw him there not an hour ago, and he ain't come back up the path since."

"Hey Bert, what are you whisperin' about there?" shouted Otis, and cuffed him as he scurried back to his comrades. "No chattin' with the Baggins!"

Frodo tried not to worry as he hurried on toward the River, telling himself that Merry was a good swimmer. _Just as his mother had been…_

_>>>_

Frodo found Merry lying on the bank by their favorite swimming spot, dropping sticks in the River to watch them float away on the sluggish current. His curls were bright as dragon's gold in the late afternoon sun.

"Merry!"

The boy looked up, startled, and saw the drawing in Frodo's hand. In a flash he was up and running.

Merry was fast, but Frodo was faster. He brought him down with a flying tackle, and though Merry struggled wildly, kept a firm grip on his ankle.

"Let go of my leg!"

"Not unless you promise not to run away!"

Merry gave him a cautious sidelong glance. "Are you angry about the picture?"

Frodo sighed. "No Merry, I'm not angry."

"All right then, I promise."

Frodo let go. They sat there for a moment in an uneasy truce. Finally Frodo broke the silence. "Just tell me one thing, Merry—why did you do it? Why would you give Hyacinth a drawing and pretend it was from me?"

Merry looked down and swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"Come now, Merry-lad, don't be afraid. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Finally Merry spoke, though he still wouldn't look at Frodo. "I was hiding under the sofa while you were talking to Dad, and I heard you say you were going to—to leave and go live with Uncle Bilbo. So I just thought…since I spoiled your drawing, that if I made a new one for you and gave it to Hyacinth, then everything would be all right…and then maybe you'd like me again, and you—you wouldn't go away." His voice quavered dangerously on the last words.

Frodo stared at him, stunned. Merry's face was now twisted up with his effort not to cry, but it was Frodo's eyes that filled with tears first. "O Merry," he whispered. He pulled the faunt into his arms and murmured, "Did you think that I was leaving to get away from you, because I was angry about the drawing?"

Merry nodded, and now he began to weep in earnest, his face pressed against Frodo's shirt and his small body shuddering with sobs. Frodo just held him until the worst had passed, then pulled back slightly and tipped Merry's chin up so that he could look into his eyes.

"Dearest Merry," he said gently, brushing away his cousin's tears, "there's nothing you could ever do, there's nothing in this world that would ever make me want to leave you. When you upset the ink I was…well, not at my best just then, and I was wrong to get so angry over something you didn't mean to do. Can you forgive me?"

Merry nodded, his chest still heaving, and tightened his grip around his cousin's neck. "But Frodo," he finally managed to get out between hiccups.

"Yes love?"

"Why _are_ you leaving then?"

Frodo sighed again, wondering how he could explain in a way Merry would understand.

"Well, Uncle Bilbo wants to adopt me, you see, and—"

"What's that mean?"

"It means…it means he wants to be like a father to me."

Frowning slightly, Merry tried to take this in. "But he _can't_ be your father—not your _real_ father!" he objected.

"No," said Frodo softly. "Not my real father…no one could ever take _his_ place. But my father in all but name, Merry—just as you are my brother in all but name."

Merry looked at him, wide-eyed. "Did you adopt me?" he asked.

Frodo smiled. "Yes, I suppose you could say that." But he quickly turned serious again. "I claimed you as my brother long ago, Merry-lad, and nothing will ever break that bond. And even if we can't always be together now, I'll still be with you, right here," he said, putting his hand over Merry's heart, "just as you'll always be with me."

Merry looked down at his chest in confusion, then back up at his cousin. He appeared unconvinced. "But you _won't_," he said woefully. "You'll be at Bag End, and I'll never see you anymore!" His lower lip started to tremble again.

Frodo thought quickly. "Of course you'll see me—I promise I'll be back for Blotmath's Eve, and Yule, and in between if you like. And just think of the jolly times we'll have when you come to visit _me_!"

Merry considered this carefully. "Do you think Mum and Dad will let me visit by myself?"

"Since I'll be there to keep an eye on you, I fancy they will."

"And will Uncle Bilbo let us stay up past bed-time?" Merry pursued, eagerness creeping into his voice now.

"He always does, Merry-lad…we'll get to sit up late by the fire while he tells exciting tales of Elves and goblins!"

Merry smiled then and laid his head back against Frodo's chest. "Frodo?"

"Yes, Merry?"

"Did Hyacinth like the picture?"

Frodo tightened his arms around his cousin. "She loved it."

>>>

Since learning of his imminent change in fortune, Hortensia was now much more cordial toward Frodo, magnanimously excusing the incident in the garden as "youthful high spirits" and even calling him by his correct name. He spent an excruciating afternoon at tea in the Hornblowers' chambers, grilled by Hamilcar about his knowledge of pipeweed cultivation as Hyacinth smiled at him sympathetically from across the table.

Nevertheless, their families took great care to ensure that the tweens had no further opportunities to be alone together, and as Frodo was still far too young for chaperoned courting, he and Hyacinth saw little of each other except at meals. "But I daresay there will be time enough for that later," said Hortensia with a wink. Amid Frodo's frustrated longing for _later_ to be _now_, he took some consolation in the fact that Coronel seemed to be making an effort to keep out of his way.

The time for the pipeweed harvest was fast approaching, and for once Frodo welcomed the incessant discussions and preparations as a distraction from the torment of his enforced separation from Hyacinth. On the eve of the harvest, Rory's agitation was near uncontainable. He could scarcely be persuaded to sit down to dinner, and even then he was continually springing up to pace the hearth.

Hamilcar sought to reassure him. "Calm yourself, Rory—'twill all be over soon enough! There's naught to worry about now, old boy."

"Hold your tongue, Ham!" growled Rory. "Every time you say that, something bad happens!"

"But Rory, think on it! This crop has survived root rot, budworm, blue mold, weevils, brown spot, suckfly, and spotted wilt…what could possibly happen to it that hasn't already happened?"

"You forgot black shank and hornworm," said Rory peevishly, but he appeared slightly mollified nonetheless.

"To the future of Buckland Broadleaf!" cried Hamilcar, and all present raised their glasses high.

>>>

Rory awoke at dawn to a hard drumming sound coming from outside the smial. He lay there a moment, struggling to break free from the lingering fog of sleep, then as comprehension dawned he shot from his bed, reaching the window in one bound. Hailstones the size of hen's eggs were pelting down furiously, piling against trees and walls and battering the flower beds around the smial. Beneath the dark, high clouds the sky was strangely bright, and the rising sun sparkled in the drifts of fallen hail.

Stunned, Rory stared down at the mangled flowers below the window, but his mind's eye was elsewhere. In the surrounding fields grapes hung heavy on the vines, ripe grain nodded on its stalks, food crops to see hobbit and beast through the winter stood ready for harvesting…

With an oath he whirled about and seized a great hunting horn that hung from a peg above the mantel, then rushing to the door blew a mighty blast that reverberated down the passages of the Hall.

_Awake! Awake!_

It was the Horn-call of Buckland, and all through the smial it was met with the sounds of slamming doors, startled shouts and running feet.

_Fear! Fire! Foes!  
Awake!_

Minutes later the kitchen was packed with anxious, bleary-eyed hobbits. The male-folk were clustered around Rory by the fire, while their wives brewed pots of strong tea and readied the canning jars for any salvageable produce. The faunts giggled and whispered excitedly at all the commotion.

Still in his nightshirt, Rory strode up and down the hearth, barking orders around the unlit pipe clenched between his teeth and jabbing the air with the fire poker for emphasis. "Saradas, you ride to Bree to negotiate contracts with the grain merchants. Mind you go posthaste…once they get wind of our misfortune they'll triple their prices."

"And if they do…?" said his brother dubiously.

"Then we'll just have to pay it… 'twill be famine in Buckland if we don't! But if anyone can squeeze an honest price from 'em it's you, brother…I'm counting on you." The poker now pointed toward his eldest son. "Saradoc, as soon as this storm lets up, go find Barden and survey the crop damage."

"He's already started. I told him it wasn't safe with the hail still coming down, but he insisted…"

"Good old Barden! Well, you can join him when we're finished here, and salvage what you can. Mac, head over to Bamfurlong, see how the Marish fared. Dodinas, Dinodas, ride out to the Great Smials…Lalia will help us, she won't have forgotten our aid in the year of the drought. Take Coronel with you, mayhap he can be of some use."

While he talked, the hail gradually tapered off then ceased altogether, and in the eerie silence that followed a door banging open sounded loud as a firecracker, making everyone jump.

Barden burst into the kitchen, showering all who stood near with melting ice crystals. He pulled off the bucket that had served him as a makeshift helmet and breathlessly exclaimed, "The vineyards are untouched, praise to all powers and guardian spirits that be!"

"I'm delighted to hear it, Barden," said Rory cautiously, "but what of the food crops?"

"They're most of 'em safe, Master." When everyone stared at him in disbelief, he added, "Seems it was a summat…ah, _local_ hailstorm!"

"Local?" Rory's eyes narrowed. "Just _how_ local?"

Barden began to hem a little. "Well sir, only the crops nearest the Hall were hit bad…the cornfields are buried in hail three fingers deep, so 'twas a lucky thing most of the ears were already picked. Then there was the pumpkins, but their rinds are that hard it didn't hurt 'em none…" he trailed off, not meeting Rory's eye.

The room had grown deathly still. "And the pipeweed?" said Rory very quietly.

Barden took a deep breath, then plunged bravely on. "It's a queer thing, Master, but the pipeweed fields, they—they was hit hardest of all. Never seen anything like it," he continued in a rush, "though it brings to mind a like occurrence me gaffer used to speak of, that happened back in the spring of…"

But Rory wasn't listening. Indeed he was already halfway to the back door, and minutes later was standing among the shredded, flattened remnants of the pipeweed plants, shaking his fist at the sky—now a limpid, mild blue—and shouting maniacally. "All right, whoever or whatever you are—I give up! You win! Are you satisfied now?"

"It's a sign," muttered Barden to no one in particular. "'Twasn't natural, and I've said all along no good would come of it…"

Merry came running in with a bucketful of hailstones, which Elsie crushed in a bowl and drizzled with blackberry syrup. Minutes later, half a dozen faunts were happily spooning up fruit ice.

* * *

_Next week_  
Chapter Thirteen: Childhood's End 

_**Author's notes:**_

While the Red Book of Westmarch states that "the Horn-call of Buckland…had not been sounded for a hundred years" prior to that dark night at Crickhollow, Frodo was tactfully ignoring Rory's erroneous blowing of the call during the freak hailstorm of 1389. As it was heard on that occasion only within Brandy Hall, few knew of the incident in any event.

"Lalia will help us…" According to Letter 214 in _The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien_, Lalia the Great was head of the Tooks upon the death of her husband, Thain Fortinbras II, in 1380 until her own death in 1402. In 1389 her son Ferumbras was Thain, but since his mother "ruled the Tooks and the Great Smials for 22 years," she would have been the logical recipient of Rory's appeal.

Yes, I know corn and pumpkins are New World crops…but since Tolkien didn't worry about the presence of tobacco and potatoes in Middle Earth, I'm not going to worry either!

_**Response to reviews:**_

**Permilea** – Thanks! I'm glad Frodo's struggle made sense to you, as I gave it a lot of thought… 

I find I enjoy writing letters from Bilbo…so perhaps the blame for wordiness should fall on me, not him! In fact, this one was cut down from an even longer version, if you can believe it! But it's true that it seems to fit his character.

His dream…well, you know, dreams can have different meanings for different people. Here's one possible meaning: a premonition that the Ring is moving on, and that once it leaves him, Bilbo will be insignificant…"invisible." Yet Frodo is not rendered invisible, and he can still see Bilbo, as he now has Power. Oh, I dunno…something like that. Not that Bilbo would be likely to come up this interpretation. For he doesn't yet understand that the Ring is the source of his "dark and nameless terror"...he thinks there is something wrong with _him_.

**Endymion** – I like your dream interpretation, but see my reply to Permilea above for a less nice one.

"Somehow I am unable to see her as such a strong character." LOL! I understand your skepticism. Of course, Frodo is a bit more biased than you…I well remember making equally naïve assumptions about my own first love!

No use for English in your daily life? And yet your English is so good—better, in fact, than some native speakers I know. How very humbling and impressive to a monolingual American like me!

Thanks as always!


	13. Childhood's End

Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter.

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling_

**Chapter Thirteen: Childhood's End**

A kind of exhausted calm settled over the Hall, roiled only by the shocking discovery that Fluffy was pregnant.

"It's that dreadful Garm, I'm positive!" wailed Hortensia, as her swelling pet waddled across the kitchen.

"Why, that's impossible," protested Rory. "Think of the size difference!"

"I'm certain of it nonetheless! What ugly mongrels they'll be…and now Fluffy will have to miss the Westfarthing Dog Show next month!"

Rory glared at his dog suspiciously.

Garm lay panting by the hearth, and managed to look smug.

>>>

It had been decided that Frodo would leave for Hobbiton on his birthday. The Hornblowers had chosen the same date for their journey home; with the unhappy conclusion of the pipeweed venture, there was no reason for them to linger in Buckland. Indeed, had Rory and Hamilcar not started last-minute discussions on importing some Southfarthing grape stock for Brandy Hall Vineyards, they would have been already gone.

In his final days at the Hall Frodo spent as much time as he could with Merry, visiting all of their old haunts and taking him swimming, fishing, boating, and hiking to his heart's content. They went berry-picking and mushroom hunting—in the woods, not in Maggot's fields—and spent long, lazy afternoons in the apple orchard, where Frodo would patiently answer every question his small companion could concoct about Hobbiton, Bag End, and Uncle Bilbo, and when might he come for his first visit?

The Brandy Hall Boys continued to track their movements, but it seemed that Otis' heart wasn't in it. Clive eyed him with concern one morning, as he sat despondently on the wall along the River-path, head in hands. "Why so blue, mate?"

"Haven't you heard?" muttered Otis. "The Baggins is leavin'…"

Clive scratched his head. "I should ha' thought you'd be right cheerful at that news!"

With mournful visage, Otis looked up at his friend and plaintively asked, "But Clive—what'll we do for fun?"

>>>

On the eve of his departure, as Frodo lay wakeful and restless in the dark, quiet Hall, he was not surprised to hear his bedroom door creak open and then shut again. There were no telltale footsteps to give away his stealthy visitor, but a minute later there was warm breath by his pillow and then a rustling of the feather bed as a small body climbed in beside him and an arm stole around his neck.

Esmeralda was right about Merry's growing independence—the frequency of his late-night visits to Frodo's room had dropped off in recent months. But tonight, for this one last time, it was like all the nights uncounted over the years, when Merry had sought refuge from the shadows in the arms of his beloved cousin.

"Frodo?" came the dear, familiar whisper.

"Yes love?"

"Will Uncle Bilbo take you with him on his next adventure?"

"I think Bilbo's adventuring days are over now, Merry."

"Oh…well then, will you take me with you when _you_ go on adventures?"

Frodo chuckled softly. "When _I_ go? Moving to Hobbiton seems quite adventure enough, thank you!"

"Promise me you will!" Merry insisted. "Someone's got to protect you from the goblins and dragons!"

"All right Merry-lad, I promise. Now go to sleep!"

Merry smiled, and snuggling closer to his cousin, shut his eyes.

>>>

The morning of his birthday Frodo was up with the sun, leaving Merry slumbering peacefully in his bed. He slipped out of the Hall before most of the household was stirring—only a few servants were quietly beginning the day's tasks. Behind the Buck Hill he took a narrow path to a small, grassy meadow enclosed by a crumbling stone wall…a quiet, peaceful place where Frodo had often retreated from the smial's hectic bustle.

The old gate creaked loudly in the stillness of the hour. Frodo passed between rows of weathered grey stones until he came to a secluded corner of the field, guarded by a towering yew tree. Below it two mossy slabs, tilting slightly toward each other, were twined about with creeping rose, only a few windblown blooms yet remaining among the bright orange hips and yellowing leaves. Sinking to his knees beside them he lightly traced the graven name on one stone, then the other. He sighed and leant his cheek against cool granite.

"I'm moving to Hobbiton, Papa, to live with Uncle Bilbo…I know how much you thought of him, so I'm sure you'd approve." His voice was low, scarcely more than a whisper. "And Mama, I've met someone! She's kind, and clever, and so beautiful…she reminds me very much of you. I think you would have liked her, Mama…"

He fell silent, lost in his memories for a time. Finally, he carefully unwrapped the birthday present he had brought—a portrait of himself that he had spent most of the previous day working on—and laid it on the greensward. Then he rose, gently touched each stone one last time, and turned away…

>>>

On returning to the Hall Frodo felt too nervous to eat breakfast, and begged off to do his final packing. In truth he had been packed since the previous afternoon, but he returned to his room for one last look. Stripped of all his possessions, with no piled-up books and strewn clothing, it looked forlorn and unnaturally neat: a stranger's room. One of the chambermaids had tried to scrub out the ink stain on the wall, but had not been entirely successful. Now it looked like the grey ghost of a spider.

Restlessly he wandered outside to watch his trunk being loaded on top of the carriage. He was immensely relieved that Sara, Ezzie, and Merry were accompanying him on the journey to Hobbiton; the most painful partings would thus be deferred a while longer. He had already taken leave of most of the family at a quiet birthday celebration the night before, and this morning had exchanged last, tearful hugs with Auntie Gilda; more reserved ones with Amaranth and Asphodel. That left only Rory.

Relations had been somewhat strained between Frodo and his uncle since their words over Bilbo's letter. While Rory had expressed his gruff approval of Frodo's decision when informed of it, and while outwardly their manner toward each other was stiffly cordial, Frodo found himself apprehensive about their final meeting. However, it could be avoided no longer. He had been instructed to report to the Master's study at 8 o' clock sharp, and that time had now arrived.

When Frodo reached the study Hamilcar Hornblower was just coming out, tucking a folded parchment into his waistcoat pocket with a look of profound satisfaction. He tousled Frodo's hair and clapped him heartily on the back. "Best of luck to you lad!" he boomed, adding with a broad wink, "See you again in a few years, eh?"

"Yes sir," said Frodo politely, but his heart sank. _A few years!_ He fervently hoped it would not be so long.

Rory was standing before the fire—the weather had finally started to cool—and on hearing Frodo enter, he looked up. "Ah! There you are, Frodo. Come in, come in." He gestured toward a chair and took one facing it. "So, lad, you're leaving us today."

"Yes, Uncle Rory." As long as they stuck to good, obvious statements of fact, Frodo thought, perhaps the conversation would not prove too difficult…

"As I've said before, it's for the best, and I'm glad you've come to see it that way."

He paused, as if waiting for a reply, but Frodo remained silent, fearing to tread too close to their earlier disagreement. Rory cleared his throat and continued, "Yes—well, before you go, there are some legal matters to be discussed…a question of your inheritance."

This was not expected. Frodo stared at his uncle. "But—I thought Uncle Bilbo was making all the arrangements!"

"Not that inheritance, boy, your _Brandybuck_ inheritance! Mind, it's not much…as the last of seven children, and a female at that, your mother was entitled to no more than a token share of the family estate. But her dowry included a small property upriver from the Hall—a mushroom farm—that brings in a tithe every year from the farmer who works it. That income has been held in trust ever since your parents died, and upon your coming-of-age it reverts to you, along with the deed to the farm."

Frodo listened in growing surprise as his uncle talked, and couldn't help but smile at the irony. He, the owner of a mushroom farm! Had he but known, and made it the target of his raids all these years rather than Maggot's fields, who could have objected?

"I know this may seem like small potatoes to you, now that you're sole heir to the Baggins fortune and lands. But it's only proper that you should know of it before you go…I'll not have it said that Rory Brandybuck kept from you what was rightfully yours!"

"Thank you, Uncle." Frodo wondered if this concluded their conversation, but it seemed that Rory wasn't through quite yet.

"Now then, Frodo, you may be leaving Buckland, but you must never forget you're a Brandybuck as much as a Baggins…mind you behave in a manner that does credit to the family! And be careful—Hobbiton's a strange place, and its folk are stranger. As for old Bilbo, he's a good hobbit, and thinks the world of you, but he's not overly endowed with common sense, to my way of thinking. If you have any problems with him, or with anyone else there for that matter, you let me know straightaway, do you hear? And keep a sharp eye on those Sackville-Bagginses…they'll be looking for a way to make trouble between you and Bilbo if they find they can't contest the will. And that's just what they _will_ find…I sent my solicitors off to Bag End last week to inspect the documents, and they assure me that Bilbo's done it up right. Sara will sign as the seventh witness when you reach Bag End."

Rory finally seemed to have run out of advice. "Well, safe journey to you, lad, and good fortune at its end. Give Bilbo my regards!"

They stood up and shook hands awkwardly. Frodo waited for Rory to give him leave to go, but instead he merely moved to the window and stood gazing out.

Frodo waited a bit, then ventured carefully, "Will that be all, sir?"

"Eh? Yes, that's all," Rory muttered, not turning round.

Frodo stood there a moment longer, uncertain, then started for the door. But just before he crossed the threshold, something made him pause and look back. Rory was still staring intently out the window, as if at some distant object. He ran his hand through his grizzled hair, and Frodo saw with surprise that it was trembling. Suddenly a light broke on him…and a slow smile spread across his face. "I love you too, Uncle," he said softly. Then he turned and was gone.

Rory looked after him, blinking hard. "So very like her…" He pulled out a large pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "I'll be hog-tied and horsewhipped for a sentimental old fool," he muttered.

>>>

Although Frodo had secretly resolved to see Hyacinth alone before they departed, so far he had not managed to get past the vigilance of her mother. And now it had come to the point: he must meet her this morning or not, he feared, for a very long time. He had pored over maps in the library, charting the shortest routes between Hobbiton and Longbottom, but had no great confidence that he would be able to put the information to use anytime soon, if Hamilcar's parting words to him were any indication.

Somehow, then, he _must_ find a way to see Hyacinth this morning. But before he could seek her out, there remained one last errand…

Summer hyacinths bloomed yet in Gilda's garden, slender white bells drooping daintily on their stems. But the forget-me-nots were long since spent, and Frodo stood dismayed amidst their fading foliage. He had set his heart on these two flowers, and no others would do.

His last hope lay with the River. For there, among the bulrushes and cattails, water forget-me-nots might still be found, bidding a lingering farewell to summer. There was one spot in particular where they flourished, if he dared venture there. As Frodo walked down to the River-path, carefully cradling the hyacinths, he contemplated with growing dread the one leave he had not yet taken…

The River lay shimmering before him in the morning light, smooth as amber glass and as tranquil as on that midsummer evening when his parents had gone boating… Since then Frodo had often fancied that the River spoke to him, mocking him in its summer calm and challenging him in its winter fury. He had answered the challenge once, and nearly paid for it with his life.

He wandered now along the path, heading downstream where the banks were lower, searching carefully but not finding what he sought. His steps gradually slowed, his hope fading that he would find the flowers before he reached the place he had avoided these many years.

And then Frodo rounded a bend in the path and saw it: the wide, marshy spot where forget-me-nots thronged in such glorious profusion that they seemed to float above the water like a trembling, ethereal mist, blue as the mirroring sky. It looked just as he remembered when, undetected, he had followed his grandfather and uncle down to the River after the summons had come in the quiet dawn. Then, too, the flowers had grown in such abundance as to stay his parents' capsized, drifting boat in its slow, meandering course downriver. And his parents, in their turn, had been caught up in the flowers' embrace…a vision of beauty and death entwined that had burned itself indelibly into his soul.

As he stood there remembering, the words of an old song came to him unbidden:

_A gallant knight and his betroth'd bride,  
Were walking one day by a river side,  
They talk'd of love, and they talk'd of war,  
And how very foolish lovers are.  
_

_"Dear Edwin, if your love be true,  
I ask one favor now from you:  
Go! Fetch me a flower from across the river,  
To prove you love me more than ever."_

Frodo stepped into the chill, murky water, and felt as he did so that he was stepping back to that other, long-ago morning. The flowers came up to his chest on their tall green stalks, swaying in the current with slow, dream-like grace. He reached out his hand to grasp one.

_So he leap'd into the river wide,  
And swam across to the other side,  
Where he pluck'd a flower right merrily  
Which gladdened his young bride to see.  
_

_But when he tried to swim across,  
All strength of body soon was lost,  
But before he sank in the river wide,  
He flung the flower to his lovely bride._

Then, as now, he had gathered flowers here. After they had taken his parents away he had gathered them, to lay on the fresh graves…

_And he cried, "Alas! Hard is my lot,  
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:  
Of my devotion let others tell,  
My dearest Ellen! Fare thee well!"  
_

_Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,  
Until her cries did rend the air;  
And she cried, "Edwin, dear, hard is our lot,  
But I'll name this flower Forget-me-not."  
_

With an effort, Frodo pulled his thoughts back to the present. The sun was climbing higher…time was growing short. He scrambled back up to the path, but still he could not turn back, not yet. He looked out over the glittering expanse of water, winding in great, looping bends off into the hazy distance. Somewhere hidden on the far shore, a heron cried.

_Never trust the River_… So his mother had taught him; so he had taught Merry. But why then had his mother's wisdom not saved her? He had heard all the whispered rumors and dismissed them as absurd: that his father's weight had sunk the boat, that his mother had pushed him in, and been pulled in after…

But far worse than the taunts of others were his own tormented questions as he lay aching and alone in the blank, pitiless night. How could it happen with the River so calm? How, with his mother so strong a swimmer? True, his father swam not at all, but that fact alone could not explain the evening's grim conclusion. More than once Frodo had arisen on such sleepless nights, and stolen from the smial to take a dory out on the glimmering water. He would let the craft drift with the current and wait, breathlessly, for the River to take him too, or at least to give him some sign, some clue to their fate. But it never did.

For years the River's unyielding secrecy had gnawed at him, filling his heart with bitterness and anger. But then Merry had laid claim to his love—had awakened his desire to protect and care for another, until the loneliness and pain had eased, and he had slowly forgotten his obsession. Until now…

Yet now, as he faced his old nemesis with his still-unanswered questions, he felt a strange sense of acceptance. The River no longer called to him, either in mockery or challenge. It was neither friend nor foe but, in the end, nothing more than a river.

He plucked some flowers from the bunch he had gathered and tossed them out over the water, then watched them catch in an eddy and spin slowly away. "Fare thee well," he whispered.

>>>

"She said she was going for a last walk in the garden."

Frodo had cornered Horatio as he was coming out of the Hornblowers' guest chambers, and his heart leaped at this reply. If he could meet Hyacinth anywhere, the garden would be his wish. And Hortensia, as Horatio further reported, was currently occupied with telling her servants how to pack…

As he hurried along, Frodo thought again of the words he had rehearsed over and over in his mind: _Twelve years might seem long to some…yet they matter little for those whose love is true…_

On reaching the garden Frodo went first to the sundial, but Hyacinth was not there. His pulse began racing nonetheless, as he thought of their last meeting. He sat for a moment on the stone bench, trying to recapture the sensations that had so overwhelmed him that he could recall them now only as an exquisite blur.

This time would be different. He would memorize every detail: the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips, the beating of her heart as he clasped her to his breast…

With a guilty start he realized he was crushing the flowers. He jumped up and wandered deeper into the garden…past the rose trellises, past the lily pond, past the little fountain singing all to itself. He was now growing anxious; the farthest bounds of the garden approached yet he had seen no sign of Hyacinth.

Close by the outer garden wall, screened by a camellia hedge, was a small pavilion. Either he would find her there…or she had left the garden. He drew nearer, clutching his flowers with trembling hands and trying to master his excitement.

Then he stopped cold, the blood draining from his face as if he had suddenly taken ill. He desperately wanted to flee, but his limbs would not obey and he stood there, white and still as one of the statues that dotted the grounds. The world seemed to spin around him and his vision darkened; indeed all his senses seemed to have abandoned him, save hearing only. For he heard with perfect clarity the low murmur of voices issuing from the pavilion.

"…you know I do, my darling."

"Then say it!" came Coronel's insistent demand.

Hyacinth's next words were shy and tentative, but stung more cruelly than the keenest blade. "I—I love you, Cory!" After that the pavilion was quiet for a time…

>>>

Hyacinth started and drew back, a look of alarm on her face.

"What's the matter, Hy?" said Coronel, trying to pull her close again. "I didn't frighten you, did I?"

"No darling, it's just—I thought I heard something."

"I heard nothing save the beating of our two hearts as one," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

"No Cory, really—I think there's someone out there! Let me go and see, I'll only be a minute."

Slipping out of the pavilion, Hyacinth ventured a few steps along the path, looking left and right but seeing no one. Puzzled, she glanced down—and a hand crept slowly to her mouth.

"Hyacinth? Is anyone out there?"

Raising her head she stood silent a moment, gazing out over the garden but seeming not to see it.

"Hy?" Coronel called again.

"No one, Cory dear!" she answered at last.

"Well come back then—I miss you!"

And Hyacinth turned and ran lightly up the steps of the pavilion to the arms of her lover, leaving behind her only some scattered flowers, white and blue, on the path.

* * *

_Next week  
_Epilogue One: Cold Comfort 

**_Poetry note:_**

The old song Frodo recalls is adapted from the poem "Forget Me Not" by William McGonagall, based on a romantic medieval legend.

**_Response to reviewer_**

**Endymion **– Well, as you now know, your fear was well founded…only two more chapters to go!

Re: the language stuff, I have a link I think you'll enjoy…I'll email it to you.


	14. Cold Comfort

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair**

_by Inkling _

**Epilogue 1: Cold Comfort **

"He needs more red!"

Frodo paused in his work and looked up quizzically at the elder hobbit hovering just behind him. "Are you certain? Remember, Uncle Bilbo, this is watercolor…once I put it in, it can't be changed."

"I'm positive, lad…that eagle's feathers had a decidedly reddish cast. I had an incomparable view of them as I was transported hundreds of feet above the earth, far too terrified to look anywhere but at the feathers I was clutching so desperately. Do you know, that bird had the audacity to suggest that I resembled a rabbit! But I was in no position to take offense! I'm sorry I never learned his name, but then I had other things on my mind at the time." Bilbo wandered over to the hearth as he talked, and poured himself a cup of tea.

"All right, then." Frodo dipped his brush in a tiny pot of vermilion pigment, swirled it on his palette with umber and a touch of black, and carefully applied it to the page in front of him. "Still, it must have been splendid, flying with an eagle," he mused dreamily. "I wish _I_ might do it someday!"

"Be careful what you wish for, lad! Some adventures are better in the telling than in the doing. And more pleasing on the page than in the flesh…" Bilbo now came back over to the drafting table to check on Frodo's progress. "Ah, that's more like it…you've captured him perfectly now!" He beamed at his cousin. "This is wonderful, my boy—I'd always dreamed of the day when you could turn your talent to the illustration of my book, even leaving blank pages as I wrote for just that purpose. But until you came here to live, there was never any practical way to manage it. I should have suggested this years ago!"

Frodo smiled. Since his arrival at Bag End six months earlier, Bilbo had done everything in his power to make him feel at home, and he suspected that the book project was part of that scheme. In any event, he was grateful to be kept so busy; it left him little time to think about other things.

Best of all, Bilbo seemed to be in great good spirits, saying nothing about dark urges or troubled dreams. Perhaps all that was behind him now…

There was a rap at the open front door of the smial. "Come in!" called Bilbo, and moments later a sturdy young lad with soft brown eyes and sandy curls appeared in the study doorway.

"Master Samwise!" cried Bilbo jovially. "What a pleasant surprise to see you twice in one morning! What brings you back up the Hill—the smell of the blackberry scones I just took out of the oven?"

"No, Mr. Bilbo," said Sam, ducking his head shyly. "I've got a letter for you, sir!"

"Oho! What's your game, lad?" teased Bilbo. "Holding back some of the morning mail in hopes of snagging another copper from me?"

Sam blushed, not realizing Bilbo was in jest. "N–No sir! This one only just came, by special post, it did!"

"Special post, eh? Well let's have a look at it then…" He reached in his pocket and gave Sam two coppers, then examined the envelope with interest. "This is for both of us, my boy," he called over his shoulder to Frodo, then read aloud: "_To Mister Bilbo Baggins and Master Frodo Baggins_."

"Mmm." Concentrating on a difficult spot in the picture, Frodo was only half listening.

While Bilbo opened the letter, Sam edged up to Frodo and peered curiously over his shoulder.

Frodo didn't look away from his delicate task of coloring in a small figure of Bilbo in the eagle's eyrie, but smiled a greeting as he worked. "Hullo again, Sam."

"Hullo, Master Frodo." Sam's eyes widened as he gazed at the image. "Mountains!" he breathed in awe. "The Misty Mountains as Mr. Bilbo is always telling of!"

"Very good, Sam! If you can guess that much, I must be doing—"

"It's a wedding invitation!" announced Bilbo excitedly. "What fun—I haven't been to a good party in ages! Let's see, who's the happy couple? _Mr. and Mrs. Hamilcar Hornblower request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Hyacinth to Coronel T_—"

_"Bollocks!"_

"Frodo!" said Bilbo, shocked. "Not in front of the faunt!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo, but I dripped some paint, and now the picture's ruined!"

"There there, lad, surely it can't be as bad as all that! Now, where was I? Ah yes: _…to Coronel Took of the Great Smials on Highday, the twenty-first of Astron, thirteen-ninety, at four o' clock in the afternoon, Hornblower Estates, Longbottom, Southfarthing, The Shire._ Coronel Took, married! I never thought that young scoundrel would meet a hook he couldn't wriggle off! And the one who finally landed him was Hyacinth Hornblower, as I live and breathe! Odd, that…I seem to recall Miss Hornblower won't be of age for a few years yet." Bilbo chuckled. "Well, there must have been a need for haste, if you take my meaning!" He was about to say more, but noticed Sam's puzzled expression and quickly broke off.

Frodo was gripping the edge of the table, staring down at the page with a stricken look.

Sam hesitated, then reached up and patted his arm with a small brown hand. "Don't be sad, Master Frodo," he said gently. "It's still a right fine picture, even with that spot."

"What's that?" Bilbo glanced up from the invitation. "Frodo-lad, you're not still fretting over that little mishap, are you?" He came over to take a closer look. "Hmm, right on my foot, I see. What a pity!"

"I can start over," said Frodo softly, eyes still fixed on the illustration, though he seemed to be looking through it, not at it.

"Nonsense, my boy! Why, it's nearly finished. I should hate for all your fine work go to waste." He too stared down at the image, thinking. "You know, it almost looks like a boot…"

Sam giggled.

"Don't laugh, Sam," Bilbo chided, "there's some in the Shire, down in the Eastfarthing, that _do_ wear boots against the muddiness in winter and spring—as Frodo here can confirm, eh lad?"

Frodo nodded glumly.

Bilbo glanced at him with a perplexed frown, then continued, "So here's my thought: if you just extend that blot a bit, and give it a little more shape, then add a like one to my other foot, why then it will simply look like I'm wearing a pair of boots!"

This sufficiently roused Frodo from his funk to protest, "But Uncle Bilbo! It wouldn't be true…and no one would believe it, anyway!"

"Now then, Frodo, who's to say that the good dwarves, concerned for my health and welfare as we struggled through the frigid mountain passes, didn't press a spare set of boots on me, eh? In point of fact, Balin did try to do exactly that! And if they hadn't been much too large, I just might have taken him up on it. So you see, it's not as far-fetched as you might think. It _could_ have happened that way…even if it didn't."

Frodo thought for a moment, brow furrowed. "But—then I'd have to put you in boots in the other pictures, too."

"Ah! I hadn't considered that, but you're quite right. What tangled webs we weave indeed! Well, there's nothing else for it…add the boots everywhere; it's the best solution I can devise and a far sight better than having you start over. I ask just one thing: if you draw me in Bag End, leave me bootless here at least! Even the most hardened traveler must return to his old ways at last…"

"As you wish, Uncle," said Frodo, though he still sounded dubious.

"Capital! That's settled, then. Now, about that wedding," said Bilbo, bustling over to his desk and starting to pull out maps. "I wonder which is the best route between here and Longbottom?"

Frodo winced. He could tell his cousin the way down to the last detail…and several alternate routes as well.

Bilbo had unrolled a large map and was now studying it carefully. "Let's see…the post-road down to Gamwich might be prudent at this time of year," he mused. "It's not the most direct route, but the smaller roads could still get washed out by rain next month. I'll make arrangements for us to stay at the _Pig & Whistle_ on the first night, then we can take our time and still arrive early in the afternoon on the twentieth…how does that sound, eh?

"I'm not going," said Frodo.

Startled, Bilbo looked up from his map. "_What?_ Why ever not?"

Frodo was unable to meet his cousin's eyes. "I don't like weddings," he muttered.

"But that's ridiculous! Why, there is no better time to be had than at a wedding, especially when it's being given by one of the wealthiest families in the Shire. And just imagine, Frodo—every pretty lass for miles around will be there! I know that might not be of much interest to you—you're young yet, but—"

"I said, I'm not going!" Frodo repeated. Though he spoke quietly, there was something in his voice that stilled Bilbo's further protests, and the old hobbit gazed silently at his cousin for a long moment. Sam still stood by Frodo's side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Very well, Frodo," sighed Bilbo at last. "I'll not force you. I shall attend the wedding alone, and send you to stay with Dora while I'm away. She doesn't like weddings, either."

_Aunt Dora! No Elvish…no second breakfasts…daily doses of fish oil…  
_"I'll be fine on my own, Uncle Bilbo!" said Frodo quickly. "I'm old enough, now." 

"Are you indeed? I wonder…" he fell silent again, but then looked up with determined cheer. "Well, we'll say no more about it at present. If my stomach's not mistaken—and it never is—it must be high time for elevenses. Leave off there, Frodo; I think you need a break. Samwise, before you cut along home, you must join us in the kitchen to help eat those blackberry scones…they won't get any better with age! In fact, in the unlikely event any are left over, you must take them down to your mother."

"Yes sir!" said Sam happily.

>>>

The wedding was not mentioned again that day, and after supper Frodo excused himself early and retired to his room. It was a spacious, well-appointed chamber with west-facing windows, considerably more opulent than his snug little nook at Brandy Hall. Frodo had done his best to make it his own by scattering books, garments, and papers over every available surface.

Kneeling now by his bed, he pulled from under it an old, cherished possession: his wooden box. This, more than anything, made the room feel like home, though certainly there was no longer any need to hide it from little rummaging hands. And instead of piling its contents on the bed or balancing them precariously in his lap, he could now carry them over to his very own writing desk. There he spread out parchment, ink, and pens…and stared at them, feeling suddenly unsure.

With these simple tools he had always sought, and found, comfort when needed. But what comfort now remained to him? Journal, poetry, drawings…no longer did they share the secrets of his grieving soul. But there was another, as yet untried way by which his pain might be eased. Setting nib in holder, he dipped it in the inkpot and began to write.

>>>

It was close to midnight when Bilbo rapped on the door, then cracked it open. He was in his dressing gown and nightcap, candle in hand. "Frodo, it's getting late, shouldn't you—why, what have you got there, lad?"

Frodo still sat at his desk, his face cast in shadowed relief by the small oil lamp beside him. He finished blotting a sheet of parchment on which he had written:

_ONCE ON A TIME_

_In Which Udo Is Shown to Be a Fool, and  
Princess Hyacinth and Coronel Live Happily Ever After_

"Nothing much," he said, adding the sheet to a stack of others and folding the document carefully into thirds. "Only a story I've just finished."

Bilbo's face lit up. "A story?" he exclaimed eagerly, coming over and perching on the edge of the desk. "Why, that's wonderful, Frodo…I didn't know there were two authors in the family! And I hope it ends as all proper stories should?"

"How is that, Uncle?"

"_And they all lived happily ever after to the end of their days_."

Frodo didn't answer at first, then looked up with a sad smile. "I don't think it's possible for every character in a story to have a happy ending."

Bilbo was taken aback. "Well, I suppose that's true enough…for the evil characters, in any event. But surely the heroes should get the ending they deserve!"

"I don't know that deserving has much to do with it," replied Frodo. "What brings happiness to one may mean sorrow for another."

Startled, Bilbo looked sharply at Frodo. The lad suddenly sounded far older than his years. "Well, I can't say I think much of this story of yours from what I've heard so far! May I see it?"

"No," said Frodo, as he slipped the manuscript into an envelope and sealed it. He wrote a name on the front and handed it to Bilbo. "But you can deliver it for me when you go to the wedding."

Bilbo looked down at the envelope, his suspicion that they were discussing more than characters in a story now confirmed. "I see," he murmured. Everything was suddenly clear—from Frodo's refusal to attend the wedding to his polite indifference to the giggling attentions of the local lasses. "I'm sorry, dear boy, for being such a blind old fool."

"The only fool here is me," Frodo whispered, looking down at the desk and seeming once more very much his age.

Bilbo moved to draw him into a hug but then stopped short, unsure. It was clear that the lad was trying hard to fight back tears, and he feared to loose the floodgates and rob him of his fragile dignity. Bilbo sighed. He was too old for this! What did he know about consoling a lovesick young hobbit? Finally deciding on a middle course, he reached out and awkwardly patted Frodo on the shoulder. "I know this will seem cold comfort to you just now, Frodo-lad, but one advantage of living as long as I have is that you start to see the pattern behind all that has happened to you."

"The pattern?" Frodo still sounded shaky, but nonetheless intrigued.

"Yes, my boy, I mean that you begin to understand that things happen as they're meant to, though you might not realize it at the time. For example, when I was a young hobbit—not much older than you, in fact—I fell madly, hopelessly in love. But it all came to naught when the object of my affections made it clear that the feeling was not mutual, and it seemed then as if my world had ended in dark ruin. I cursed my unhappy fate and for a long time, life seemed a dreary burden.

"And yet, Frodo, if things had gone otherwise…if I had settled down in domestic bliss and filled Bag End with fauntlings, however could I have gone off adventuring with thirteen dwarves and a wizard that fine spring morning? Indeed, I doubt very much that Gandalf ever would have approached me under those circumstances—in which case my life would have turned out very differently! So in the end, you see, my disappointment in love turned out to be for the best…"

"Are you certain of that?" asked Frodo softly.

"Oh yes," Bilbo replied with swift conviction, a curious gleam in his eye. His hand strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fiddled with something inside it. "I have never doubted it for a minute…"

"Who was she?"

"Eh, who was who?" said Bilbo, his thoughts elsewhere.

"The one you fell in love with."

"It was—now see here, Frodo, never you mind who it was! No use dredging up ancient history, lad…I only mentioned it to make a point." Bilbo stood up suddenly. "Well as I said before, it's getting late and—Ah!" he cried, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Now see what you've done—I came in here just now with a purpose, but all this talk of stories and fate has nearly driven it from my mind. I wanted to tell you that after giving it some thought, I've concluded that it would be highly unwise to let you stay here by yourself while I'm away in Longbottom."

"But, Uncle—"

Bilbo held up his hand. "Let me finish, lad! As I was saying, I don't want to go off and leave you on your own. But, having duly noted your lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of Dora's company, I've written to Ezzie and asked her to come for a visit…and to bring Merry with her."

Frodo stared at him, momentarily speechless.

"I hope that wasn't too presumptuous of me, lad," Bilbo continued hesitantly, "and it's not that I don't trust you. You're right: you _are_ old enough now to look after yourself. It's just that I—I didn't want you to be alone, you see, not when you were so clearly upset about something…even if I was too thick-headed to see what it was."

"O Bilbo!" Frodo threw himself at the old hobbit, and now the tears came fast and free.

"There now, dear boy, just let it all out," Bilbo murmured, stroking his cousin's hair. He smiled in relief, and blinked back a tear of his own. Perhaps he was getting the hang of this after all…

* * *

_Next week  
_"All's Fair" concludes with Epilogue Two: Happily Ever After 

_**Author's note:**_

I've always wondered why, contrary to his own description of hobbits, Tolkien depicted Bilbo wearing boots in all but one of his illustrations for _The Hobbit_. This is my explanation!

_**Response to reviewers:**_

**Frodo Baggins 88** – I'm glad you liked it, and hope the last two chapters don't disappoint. Thanks for your review, and for the encouragement! I will keep writing…just wish I could do it faster!

**lovethosehobbits** – Based on my own experience with first love, I heartily agree! Thanks for reviewing and I hope you enjoy the conclusion.

**Endymion **– I'm so glad that you could understand why the story had to end this way, as I've been feeling a bit guilty for putting poor Frodo through all that grief! But they really are not well suited for each other…the age gap is certainly a problem; they're at such different points in their lives. Also, I think that Frodo is just too nice for Hy…she's attracted to "bad boys" like Coronel, and no doubt thinks that her love will reform him (ha!). After all, she's still young and foolish too!

I'm also glad you liked the humor and the imagery…the scenes you mention are some of my own favorites. If I imagine "All's Fair" as a movie, I picture the final shot being of the flowers lying on the path, as the camera zooms slowly in on them and the strains of the Merry Widow Waltz swell on the soundtrack.

"Mama" and "Papa" are used in English, though considered a bit old-fashioned these days.

I'll miss your reviews, too:) I _am_ working on another story—the first in a 12-story series!—but given what an abysmally slow writer I am, it may be a while before you see it. And we'll both be in our dotage before I finish the whole series, LOL!


	15. Happily Ever After

_Rating: PG-13 for fight scenes and mild sexuality.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**All's Fair **

_by Inkling_

**Epilogue 2: Happily Ever After **

toujours gai, toujours gai  
– mehitabel

"Whoa! Hold up there, little one!" Frodo staggered backwards as a tiny hobbit ran full-tilt into his legs then, bouncing off, landed hard on his bottom. For a moment the faunt seemed ready to burst into tears, but in the end just put his thumb in his mouth and stared solemnly up at Frodo. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, eh?" Frodo asked as he picked him up, dusted him off, and set back him on his feet. "There you are, lad, good as new!" He knelt down so that he was eye-to-eye with the youngster and smiled reassuringly. "Now then, I don't think you came to the party by yourself, so let's go find your mama and papa, shall we?"

At that moment a voice called out, "Hammie! Come back this instant, you naughty boy!"

Frodo stiffened; he recognized the voice instantly though twelve years had passed since he heard it last.

It was Hyacinth. Threading her way through the crowds of revelers she hastened toward them, scolding all the while. "Shame on you for running away from Mummy and almost knocking over that poor gentlehobbit…I'm so sorry sir, I—" She broke off with a surprised exclamation as she caught up to them and got her first clear look at Frodo.

She paused, at a momentary loss, then quickly recovering she stooped to pick up her son and straightened again. "Hello Frodo…forgive me, I didn't see at first that it was you. And please excuse Hammie…he's at that age when he just starts running for the fun of it, and if someone doesn't catch him there's no telling when or where he'll stop…"

Frodo stood up hastily, brushing the grass off his breeches. "Hello, Hyacinth. Please don't give it another thought. I have scores of cousins who act the same way—and some of them are much older than your little one."

Her composure now fully restored, Hyacinth smiled at him. "I'm delighted to see you, Cousin! Please accept my congratulations on your coming of age."

Several more hobbit children had been trailing behind their mother, and were now peering shyly at Frodo from behind her skirts. "This is my eldest, Donnabella," said Hyacinth, indicating a pretty lass of eleven or twelve, "and the twins, Otto and Orlando. And, of course, little Hammie—Hamilton, that is—you've already met! Children, say hello to your Cousin Frodo…it's his birthday, and Uncle Bilbo's, that we're here to celebrate tonight."

"Pleased to meet you, Cousin Frodo," they chorused. She frowned at them expectantly, until Donnabella quickly added, "And many happy returns!"

"Thank you, my dear!" smiled Frodo. "What lovely children you have!" he said to Hyacinth, even as he wondered where Coronel was.

"They are my most precious treasures." She gazed proudly at them, then said to her daughter, "Donna, why don't you take your brothers over to the table where Granny and Gran'dad are sitting? I'll be along directly, after I've finished speaking with Cousin Frodo."

"All right, Mummy." Donnabella dipped a polite curtsey to Frodo, then took Hammie from her mother and barked at the others, "Come on then, you heard Mum!"

After the children had gone, Frodo and Hyacinth stood silent for a long moment, looking at one another.

Bearing four babes had cost Hyacinth the slender figure of her youth, but her movements were as graceful as ever and her voluptuous curves had a warm sensuality that Frodo found quite… striking. Her luxurious auburn tresses were now demurely pinned up, and the first strands of silver gleamed amid the burnished copper. While her face had lost none of its delicate beauty, time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth and care had creased her brow. But the passing years had failed to diminish the light in her eyes, and her gaze, as it met his own, still had the power to steal Frodo's breath away.

If Hyacinth had once thought that Frodo possessed a certain waifish charm, she now saw that this early promise had reached its full flowering. His features, which had had an unfinished quality as he teetered on the cusp between childhood and tweens, had finally knit together into a harmonious and highly pleasing whole. His dark curls were still long and unruly, but now seemed to frame his face most attractively rather than hiding it. His gaze had a directness she had never observed in the past; the gentleness and sensitivity she had seen that day in the garden were still there, but strengthened by a quiet self-possession. His build had caught up to his height and though still slim, he no longer looked like a strong wind would snap him in half…in fact he had filled out rather nicely, she thought. His soft Bucklander lilt had all but disappeared, to be replaced by the cultured accent of the Westfarthing gentry.

"You're looking well, Frodo."

"And you, Hyacinth…you're even lovelier than when I saw you last."

She gave a skeptical laugh, but her cheeks colored slightly. "And you're just as sweet-tongued! Surely you're too young for your eyes to be failing, but I thank you just the same." Then her smile faded and a pensive look came over her face. "Can it really be twelve years…" She seemed to hesitate, then said in a rush, "Frodo, I'm sorry I never wrote to thank you for the story you sent me, but I…I wasn't certain that I ought…or even if you'd want me to."

Frodo swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly gone dry. _So we come to it…_ "No thanks were expected," he replied, careful to keep his voice steady, "but I do hope that it pleased you."

Her mouth twisted in something between a grimace and a smile. "Oh, yes…it was a charming fairy story."

"A fairy story?" faltered Frodo, his calm demeanor slipping. "I—I didn't intend it as such…it's what I imagined to be true. I _was_ right, wasn't I?"

Hyacinth looked away.

"But it _did_ have a happy ending…?" Frodo pressed anxiously.

Before Hyacinth could answer, Frodo heard an equally familiar—though less welcome—voice hailing him, and turned to find himself face to face with Coronel Took.

While Coronel's good looks had not deserted him, their effect was somewhat spoiled by a florid complexion and prominent paunch, both hinting at a penchant for excess. He was clearly in his cups. "Well well well, if it isn't young Frodo! Or _Mister Baggins_ I should say, now that you're all grown up and come of age!"

_If he tousles my hair, I'll kill him,_ thought Frodo.

But Coronel only beamed at him with ale-soaked benevolence and said, "Many happy returns, lad! Still writing poetry?"

"No," said Frodo curtly.

"No? That's a pity, you had a real talent for it."

"_Cory!"_ exclaimed Hyacinth, aghast. If looks could kill, he would have been struck down as he stood.

"Don't be silly my dear, we're all adults here and I'm sure Frodo bears no hard feelings over that silly little prank…all's fair in love, eh?"

Frodo said nothing. He wondered at himself that he did not feel angrier with Coronel, but what he mostly felt was sympathy for Hyacinth's obvious chagrin.

There was an awkward silence, during which the band could be heard playing a sprightly ländler. At that moment a pretty young hobbit-maid with bouncing golden curls and rosy cheeks ran up to them. "Fro–do!" she trilled happily. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Hello, Buttercup," Frodo replied without enthusiasm. He turned to the others. "Hyacinth, Coronel, please allow me to present Miss Buttercup Boffin of the Overhill Boffins. Buttercup, this is Mr. Coronel Took of the Great Smials and his wife, Hyacinth."

The lass gave a perfunctory curtsey and said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, good sir and madam," before quickly turning back to Frodo. "Have you forgotten that you promised to dance the ländler with me, Frodo?"

"Ah…no, of course not…and I will be delighted to honor that commitment, just as soon as I have finished speaking with the Tooks," Frodo politely demurred.

"But you dance it better than anyone else here, most of the lads can't keep from stepping on my toes," she pouted. When it became clear that Frodo would not relent, she sulkily moved off a few paces to watch the dancers.

Coronel followed her with his eyes, then turned to Frodo and winked suggestively. "You're a lucky hobbit, Frodo…young, well situated, unattached…what more could a fellow ask?"

Frodo looked at him steadily, until Coronel's smile faltered and his eyes dropped. "It's you who are the lucky one, Coronel," he said quietly.

Coronel blinked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before looking guiltily at his wife. "Oh! Er—yes, of course," he mumbled.

Buttercup, still watching the twirling dancers, gave a histrionic sigh and glanced over at Frodo reproachfully.

"If there's one thing I can't bear to see, it's a damsel in distress," declared Coronel firmly. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. "In my day I could dance a rather neat ländler myself, Miss Boffin…perhaps could I be of some service, if you're willing to give it a go with an old codger like me?"

Buttercup giggled. "Oh Mr. Took, you're not so old as all that! How sweet of you to offer," she added with a pointed look at Frodo.

"By your leave, my dear?" Coronel called over his shoulder to Hyacinth, then without waiting for a reply he gripped Buttercup tightly about the waist and danced away with her.

Once again Frodo and Hyacinth were left standing alone together. Their eyes met for a moment before Hyacinth bowed her head, as if ashamed.

"I'm sorry," Frodo murmured, thinking how inadequate his words sounded.

Hyacinth looked up quickly and smiled, though her eyes were over-bright. "Don't be," she said briskly. "What was that you said the day we met? _I can bear the gossip but not the pity_…"

"Something like that," said Frodo, startled that she remembered.

"It's not as if I walked into this with my eyes shut," continued Hyacinth. "But I thought that I could change him, or that faunts would…" she gave a short, bitter laugh. "Even before we were wed it was clear that a cow was more likely to jump over the Moon than he to mend his ways. During my confinement he shamelessly chased anything in a skirt at Longbottom Manor…and even a few _not_ in skirts, if the rumors be true," she added.

Frodo stared at her, shocked. "Then why did you go through with it?"

"Well, there was the babe, of course. And…I did love him—_still_ love him," she said softly, no longer trying to disguise the anguish in her voice. Seizing his hand, she looked up at him with a kind of pleading desperation. "Can you understand, Frodo? I had no say in the matter, really…my heart made its choice, and I could no other—no matter how much I might have wished it."

Frodo was silent for a long moment, struggling to control his own emotions. "Yes, I can understand," he said at last. Then he forced himself to ask the question that was tormenting him, both needing yet fearing to hear the answer. "Hyacinth, forgive me for asking, but I—I must know: was it the poems…?"

Hyacinth smiled sadly and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "No," she replied. "It wasn't your poems that made me fall in love with him, though certainly I was pleased and flattered by them. In fact, after the truth of the matter came out, I rather thought I hated him! But just before we left Buckland, he came to say farewell. And I asked him once more why he'd deceived us both so wickedly. I'd asked him that day by the sundial, too, but he made no answer then, at least none that satisfied me. But on that last morning…he said it was his love for me that had made him do it. And I—I thought he must love me a great deal indeed to have been driven to such extreme measures!" She sighed. "I know it seems foolish now, but at the time I was more impressionable. And Coronel was good—very good—at making an impression."

"Don't I know it," said Frodo bitterly.

"You were coming to see me that morning too, weren't you?" said Hyacinth gently, releasing his hand at last.

Frodo simply nodded, not asking how she knew.

They both fell silent, thinking of scattered flowers on a path. And it seemed now that there was nothing more to say, so that when someone approached they stirred and moved away from each other, as if relieved to have the tension of the moment broken.

It was Merry, now a handsome and very self-assured young hobbit of nineteen. "There you are, Frodo, I—" He broke off when he saw his cousin's face and asked worriedly, "I say, are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Merry, you remember Cousin Hyacinth, don't you?"

Merry started at the name. "Of course…pleased to meet you again, Madam." His manner was stiffly polite, but the look he flashed Hyacinth was less than friendly. He turned back to Frodo. "Bilbo's looking for you…he says it's almost time, whatever that means."

Before Frodo could reply, he was nearly bowled over for the second time that night as a small, hurtling hobbit careened into him at full speed. His assailant this time was a bright-eyed, impish lad of twelve with an extremely guilty expression. "Oh, sorry Frodo! Merry, you've got to hide me!"

"What have you done this time, Pip?" asked Merry with all the exasperated superiority of a teen.

"Nothing! Well, nothing much to speak of, that is…oh, I'll tell you later Merry, but right now you've got to save me from your gaffer!"

Just then Rory's voice came booming through the crowd. "Peregrin Took, you young scoundrel! Just wait till I get hold of you…!"

"All right, come on then," said Merry, trying to sound disapproving but unable to hide a grin. He looked back at Frodo, suddenly serious again. "You're sure everything's all right?"

"Quite sure, Mer."

Merry didn't look convinced, but Pippin was tugging at him frantically. He turned to Hyacinth and bowed slightly, then hurried off with his cousin in tow.

Hyacinth watched them leave, smiling at a memory. "He's still trying to protect you, I see," she said wryly.

"It was supposed to be the other way around, you know," recalled Frodo with a rueful laugh. "But Merry never really did need protecting—at least, not for very long. And now he can protect Pippin to his heart's content…"

The music had stopped now and the crowd was calling for more, Coronel's voice rising raucously above the rest. Hyacinth frowned. "I had better go and collect my husband before he makes a greater fool of himself than he already has!" She extended her hand rather formally and said with a tight smile, "Frodo, it was such a pleasure to see you again after all this time. Many happy returns to you!"

"Thank you, Hyacinth." He could find no more words than these, and releasing her hand, he started to turn away just as the musicians struck up another ländler. At the first notes he froze—the haunting melody trembled with yearning tenderness, piercing his soul. It was the Merry Widow.

His eyes met Hyacinth's and then, without knowing quite how he came there, Frodo found himself back at her side. "May I have the honor of this dance, Mrs. Took?" he asked softly.

Hyacinth hesitated for a heartbeat, then replied, "I'd be delighted, Mr. Baggins."

He bowed, she curtseyed…then he took her in his arms and they whirled off across the floor. And it was just as in his dream: the world faded around them into a blur of lights and colors, the other dancers reduced to spinning shadows until there was no one else at all, just the two of them pressed close in the ländler's sweet embrace…

The world, however, was still very much present and looking on with great interest; this was partly because the pair danced with such grace that they were a pleasure to watch. But some of the goodwives were scandalized. The young Master, making so bold as to dance with a married hobbit! Some of their outrage no doubt stemmed from the fact that Mr. Frodo had passed over their lovely and eligible daughters in favor of that shameless Hyacinth Took.

Their husbands laughed and nudged each other. "Let Cory get a bit of his own back, the old wife-poacher, and see how he likes it!" said one. Others just shrugged, being of the opinion that the future Master of Bag End was free to dance with whomever he jolly well pleased on his coming-of-age day.

The dancers had not escaped the notice of Coronel and Buttercup either, and they seemed none too pleased about it. Buttercup, in fact, looked quite put out that Frodo had turned her down only to dance with an old matron. For his part, Coronel was staring at Hyacinth as if he had not truly seen her for a long while.

Too soon, the dance ended in a flurry of applause. Frodo released Hyacinth and stepped back a reluctant pace or two. As she curtseyed she smiled at him, and this time it was genuine. "Thank you Frodo, that was lovely! You've made me feel like a lass again…" She paused, and looked at him questioningly.

Frodo wavered for a moment, suddenly shy and unsure as a young tween and painfully aware, now, of the crowd of curious onlookers. Then he smiled in return and, taking Hyacinth's hand, he bowed over it and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips. He raised his eyes to hers. "Hyacinth, I—"

Suddenly Coronel was there, appearing markedly more sober than he had before. "Charming, very charming…I had forgotten what a lovely dancer you are, my dear! And _you've_ learned a thing or two since I last saw you on a dance floor," he added with a sharp glance at Frodo. "Now if you'll kindly excuse us, old boy, it's time to round up the faunts…" He took Hyacinth by the elbow and began steering her away.

But Hyacinth suddenly stopped and pulled free of his grip. Ignoring Coronel's look of displeasure, she ran back to Frodo, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "Your story was wrong in this at least," she whispered. "Udo was never a fool." Then she was gone.

Frodo stood there still, the party swirling around him unheeded, and found himself thinking, unaccountably, of the first time he had laughed after his parents died. He had been horror-struck at the realization—having felt so sure he would never laugh again.

He tried to imagine them at the party tonight, celebrating his coming of age. _Would they have been proud of me?_ he wondered, recalling Bilbo's words in his letter—so long ago now, twelve years…

_Twelve years might seem long to some…yet they matter little for those whose love is true…_

His thoughts drifted then to that other birthday—was it really only twelve years ago?—when for the second time in his short life he had felt his world crumble around him…had seen his carefully reconstructed happiness vanish like the will o' the wisp it was, leaving him alone once more. And it had seemed more than he could bear, more than anyone could bear, and he had stood as on the edge of an abyss, and gazed into the void, and felt its pull…

But somehow, just as with his parents' deaths, he _had_ borne it, had found it within himself to carry on with this business of living, and even to find pleasure again in doing so. Somewhere deep down, the darkness beckoned still, but as yet the pull of light and life was the stronger.

Over time he had even come to realize that there had been no betrayal, no abandonment on Hyacinth's part, for indeed she had never claimed to love him, nor made him any promise. And he had taken some consolation—or "cold comfort" as Bilbo had put it—from his conviction that Hyacinth had found happiness in marrying her own true love, just as he had written in his story.

But her real story, it seemed, had had a different author. He felt a profound sense of disillusionment settling over him and sinking deep into his soul.

_Does no one get their happy ending?_

All his feelings of longing and grief, both past and present, were now flowing together until he could not have said whether it was for Hyacinth that he mourned, or for the older, deeper loss that would always be with him, or even for the loss that was yet to come but that drew nearer with each passing minute.

With a start, Frodo realized that the music had stopped. Everyone had gone quiet around him and he could hear Bilbo speaking:

_My dear Bagginses and Boffins…_

The words struck a sudden chill in his heart. Until now Bilbo's talk of leaving had not seemed real; his planned disappearance no more than a lark, a whimsical prank. But now cold reality would not be denied: he was losing his family again, and would be left alone once more. For a moment he felt the darkness pressing in close...

But then he shook it off. He had come of age now, and must take his disappointments and sorrows as they came…just as Hyacinth surely had done for the sake of her children. He smiled faintly. This time there would be no fistfights or mushroom raids.

…_and Grubbs, and Chubbs, and Burrowses…_

Perhaps, after all, this was what it truly meant to grow up: you carry on, do what you must—happy ending or no.

…_Goodbodies, Brockhouses, and Proudfoots._

"ProudFEET!" someone shouted.

Frodo lifted his head, drew a deep breath, and steadily walked up to take his place at Bilbo's side.

_The End_

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

Opening quote from _archy and mehitabel_ by Don Marquis.

Bilbo's speech excerpts from _The Fellowship of the Ring_.

To Marcel Proust for the hawthorns and lilacs, A.A. Milne for Princess Hyacinth, Prince Udo, and Coronel, C.S. Forester for Horatio Hornblower, Franz Lehàr for the Merry Widow Waltz, and Edmond Rostand for _Cyrano de Bergerac_; to all the poets whose work I borrowed; and to J.R.R. Tolkien for everything else: thanks and sorry.

To my readers and reviewers: thank you for letting me share my story with you. It's truly been a pleasure.

And last but not least, a heartfelt thanks to my wonderful beta…the story would not be what it is without you.

_**Response to reviewers:**_

**lovethosehobbits** – Well, as you now know, your guess was right…it just wasn't a scenario where anyone was likely to end up very happy, I'm afraid. Hope the ending isn't too much of a downer…and that there is at least some comfort in seeing that Frodo's strength and nobility of character, which will serve him so well later on, are already apparent. Thank you so much for reviewing!

**Aldarwen** – I'm so glad you enjoyed the story…realism is definitely what I was going for here. After all, how often does "first love" work out in real life? And I think his ability to deal with adversity is one of Frodo's greatest qualities—what later enables him to carry the Ring to Mt. Doom. Thank you for your kind comments and hope you liked the last chapter!

**Endymion** – Tolkien was also artistic, and did a number of illustrations for _The Hobbit_. He wasn't much on drawing figures, but his landscapes are lovely and fanciful. His painting of the eagle is my favorite.

A born storyteller? What a nice compliment! And thank you SO much for all your steady encouragement and interest…reviews like yours are one of my favorite things about this whole process.

And presenile dementia…! I sometimes wonder if I've got that already, though it may just be parenthood! ;)


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